


The Art of Letting Go

by Nekhen



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Human, Dom/sub, Gentle Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Sub Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:33:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 54,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21906793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekhen/pseuds/Nekhen
Summary: In a world where Dominants and Submissives are identified at birth and paired off by an all-powerful Council, Dominant Aziraphale strives to keep out of the entire mess and live his simple, easy life to the best of his abilities. He has a nice household, an interesting job, and all the books he could possibly need. Everything is blissfully, boringly perfect.The very last thing he expects is to come home one day to a red-haired man chained to the floor of his drawing-room.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 647
Kudos: 953
Collections: Courts GO Re-Reads, Top Aziraphale Recs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, another one. If anyone was still unclear about that, I have absolutely no control over my own creative process.
> 
> For all my dabbling in D/S smut here and there in the past, I’ve never actually written anything like this before, so I’m a bit nervous. I hope it will come out all right. It’s not meant to be a particularly long story (it started out as a stand-alone, but then I’ve been assaulted by smutty bits that simply did not want to be left aside and I decided to split it in chapters), so I’ll try to update as frequently as possible until we get to the end. I'm not sure how often that will be, and I might actually put up a schedule in the future. We'll see.  
> Be warned: it’s mostly shameless smut.
> 
> If you want to be kept up to date on my extremely random posting schedule, [this](https://twitter.com/nekhen2/) is my Twitter. I’m not exactly the best that ever was at being social, but if I have something to say about my stories, that’s where you can find it. If you want to say hi, that’s also the place.
> 
> Finally, comments and kudos are the petrol that fuels my writing. Every single one of them is a blessing and will be extremely appreciated <3
> 
> Although this story is not meant to be particularly graphic in that regard, I think a **warning** is in order for past non-con and the general dub-con associated with this kind of setting. Keeping that in mind, everything between Aziraphale and Crowley is consensual.  
> Wherever necessary, I will give more specific CWs in the notes at the beginning of the chapter.

The Submissive was well-trained, that much was plain to see. He was kneeling silently on the floor of Aziraphale’s drawing-room, completely naked, aside from the thick collar fastened tight around his neck and the sturdy cuffs that covered his arms almost from wrists to elbows, buckled behind his back. The perfect poise, the downcast eyes, the delicate bow of his head–it all bespoke of a quite comprehensive education, bestowed upon a rather receptive student. As much as he looked (and he did, shamefully so), Aziraphale could find no fault in his stance, not a twitch in his muscles to betray the strain. The Submissive was in perfect control of his body, collected, graceful, and beautiful.

There was no tip-toeing around that, as much as Aziraphale wanted to. The Submissive was a work of art, all clean lines and hard planes, pale skin stretching over tense sinews and sharp bones. His nape looked as delicate as a china-bone tumbler, but its fragility was belied by the play of coiled muscles along his back, framing the hard bumps of his spine and fanning out to span his sides. His shoulders were narrow, but well-shaped and sturdy-boned, and his long-fingered hands looked elegant and capable from where they rested, clasped together over the bump of a deliciously rounded bum. The black leather of the collar and the cuffs looked lurid against the naked skin, a shock of colour only matched by the flaming red hair, brushing his shoulders in wavy curls. There was a dash of red between his legs, too, where his lovely pink cock rested on a cloud of perfectly groomed red hairs.

Oh, yes. Aziraphale had definitely looked his fill.

He took a deep breath. Unlike almost every other Dominant he knew, Aziraphale had never had a Submissive assigned to him, mostly because he had never wanted one. A Submissive meant a great deal of satisfaction to his Dominant, physically, sexually and psychologically, but they also required a great deal of care, and Aziraphale simply didn’t think to be suited for that kind of responsibility. He was a selfish, distracted sort of man, too taken with his work and his books to dedicate that kind of attention to another human being, and the last thing he wanted was for a Submissive to suffer because of it. He’d decided a long time before that the sporadic tryst or the occasional prearranged encounter would have to suffice, and he’d managed to get on quite well in life that way, at least until now.

Now, he had to deal with a distressingly gorgeous Submissive demurely kneeling in his drawing-room, and Aziraphale was tempted, for the first time in decades, to renounce a lifestyle that had served him rather well so far and actually keep the man. It was within his rights, after all. He didn’t care one bit that being handled this particular Submissive had been intended as a slight–if Gabriel didn’t think that anyone getting to touch this lovely creature would be blessed for it, he was the one at fault. Thinly veiled insult or not, the Submissive had been given to him as a gift, and Aziraphale had half a mind to keep him as such.

But a Submissive was not a thing, and Aziraphale had no intention to leave him chained to the floor like an animal.

He took his time to get up from the padded chair on which he’d been sitting for the past ten minutes, telegraphing every movement as he rose to his feet. The Submissive looked deceptively remote in his kneeling position, but Aziraphale had already spotted a keen intelligence and a sharp, nervous attention being focused on him since he’d stepped into the room.

That was the other side of the coin, the reason Gabriel had decided that saddling Aziraphale with this particular Submissive was a fitting punishment for a man that had been steadily refusing to conform for the last twenty-odd years, since he’d reached the legal age to take over a Submissive and become a contributing member of the society. Because if Aziraphale didn’t particularly care for his duties as Dominant, it was pretty obvious to everyone involved that this man _loathed_ his role as Submissive. He’d been assigned to seven different Dominants in the last eighteen years, and he’d run from every single one of them. Hence why Gabriel had been so kind to chain the man down to his floor for him, lest Aziraphale was to come home to an empty room and a discarded collar.

Aziraphale clicked his tongue against his palate, as he slowly stepped closer. The room was far from cold, but it was November, for crying out loud, and the man had to be positively freezing. Was it really necessary to deliver him naked? But then again, Aziraphale himself had taken his time to look him over, before thinking that perhaps he ought to do something about it. A fresh wave of shame washed over him, and Aziraphale ducked his head slightly, as he reached the kneeling man.

Aside from a muscle twitching in his jaw, nothing betrayed that the Submissive was aware of or concerned in any way with the Dominant’s proximity. Aziraphale walked around him slowly, luxuriating one last time in the man’s beauty before crouching behind him. The Submissive’s shoulders tensed at the vulnerability of that configuration, but he didn’t move, didn’t utter a single word. Aziraphale fought sternly the need to place a hand between those bony shoulder blades, soothing the Submissive’s obvious nerves. He could feel his own body answer to the man kneeling in front of him, his blood swirl faster in his veins, his skin prickle at the back of his neck. It was a strong reaction, one that Aziraphale didn’t get to experience very often, but it wasn’t particularly surprising. He’d known since the moment he’d stepped into the room and seen the man kneeling on his floor that he wouldn’t have been able to be indifferent to him. Aziraphale could feel a pull towards him that he’d never felt before, and if the Submissive hadn’t been so very blatantly dreading his proximity, he would’ve given in already, his work and hermit life be damned. But imposing his touch on someone that didn’t want it was too vile a thing to be even remotely considered, and Aziraphale was very cautious to unbuckle the leather cuffs without grazing the man’s skin. They were thick and soft and beautifully made (nothing was too expensive for Gabriel and his Council), perfectly encasing the Submissive’s forearms without cutting his circulation, and in another occasion Aziraphale would’ve taken his time to open one clasp after the other, admiring the craftsmanship and the pale skin revealed as each leather strip slipped free. But that was not the time. He made quick work of it, and soon the cuffs were dropping onto the floor with an audible clink.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting from the man. Perhaps that he’d bring his arms back front, massaging his newly freed skin, or at the very least that he’d flex his wrists to lessen the stiffness in his muscles after being restrained from what Aziraphale suspected had been quite some time.

The Submissive did neither. He simply remained as still as he’d been until then, with his hands resting meekly on his buttocks and his fingers slightly cupped. If Aziraphale had taken before-and-after pictures, he’d have been hard-pressed to find a shift in his stance. It was an astonishing display of control, and Aziraphale was rather impressed.

He stood up just as slowly as he’d been crouching down, taking his time to reach the Submissive’s front. The man’s eyes were downcast, just as they’d been the entire time Aziraphale had been in the room. Yet, he knew the man had looked up, from time to time. He knew he’d been keeping tabs on Aziraphale’s movements. The fact alone that Aziraphale hadn’t been able to catch him in the act even once was remarkable.

The man’s breathing barely stuttered, as Aziraphale crouched in front of him. He recovered immediately, resuming his flawless tempo of inhales and exhales, regular as clockwork. Aziraphale could’ve measured the time to them.

There was a clunky iron chain connecting the thick leather collar to the single ring embedded into the floor. The ring had been placed there specifically for that purpose, though in a more recreational context than the one in which the Submissive was finding himself in that particular moment. The chain was so short that the man was forced to keep his head bowed, though he did so with such grace that he made it look like he was doing it of his own volition, instead of being forced into it. Aziraphale’s temper flared at the ignominy of it. It was a humiliating position, which wasn’t essentially wrong _per se_ , but done to someone who didn’t get pleasure from it was nothing short of disgraceful. It was pretty obvious that the Submissive wasn’t enjoying it, but merely enduring it. Gabriel ought to be ashamed of himself.

Aziraphale tried to be as careful unfastening the collar as he’d been with the cuffs, but it was tricky, with the Submissive’s long hair in the way. He didn’t want to touch him any more than he had to, but he must push it aside, and the soft curls trickled like silk through his fingers as he felt for the buckle. The warm gusts of the man’s regular breaths were lapping at his neck, and Aziraphale realised with a start that he was getting hard in his pants. How embarrassing. He was a Dominant, and that Submissive was showing a better handle over his own body than he was.

Eventually, the buckle was unlocked, and both the collar and the chain dropped with a loud clunk of iron onto the floor. Aziraphale rose slowly, grimacing a little at the pang in his joints (he was really getting old, how depressing), and took a step back.

The Submissive didn’t move a muscle.

Oh, buggers.

“You can get up, if you want.”

His voice had sounded unnaturally loud, in the still silence of the drawing-room. The Submissive didn’t react for so long that Aziraphale was starting to wonder whether he’d heard him, when the elegant head finally rose and a pair of gorgeous amber eyes settled steadily upon him.

Aziraphale felt his breath catch in his chest. The man was even more beautiful than he’d thought. There was something savage in his eyes, something never truly tamed that belied the perfect countenance of his stance, and Aziraphale realised that the fight had never been trained out of him. He wondered if he was actually a Submissive, even, although he knew that the Council didn’t make those sorts of mistakes. The man _was_ a Submissive, there were no doubts about that, but he surely wasn’t a meek one.

A forbidden thrill ran down his spine. That wasn’t the first strong-minded Submissive Aziraphale had ever seen, quite the contrary, but he usually didn’t go for the type. He liked tame Submissives, easy to please and eager to please others, with which he could have satisfying, uncomplicated sex. He didn’t have the patience or the temperament to keep the more difficult Submissives in check, and didn’t draw any particular enjoyment from punishing them. That was yet another anomaly that was relentlessly mocked, especially by more forceful Dominants, who actually liked Submissives with a bit of a fight to them. Aziraphale was the weak, substandard Dominant who got his standing by a curious quirk of nature and could only handle the meekest, easiest Submissives, because anyone who wasn’t ready to roll over and show his tender underbelly would undoubtedly prove to be too formidable for such a spineless Dom. Giving Aziraphale someone like the man kneeling in front of him was yet another form of cruel mocking, another layer to the insult.

The man didn’t seem willing to submit even enough to stand, if that was what was required of him. He managed to turn even kneeling, a glaring act of obedience, into a form of silent jeer.

Aziraphale sighed.

“Come on. Up.”

What a dizzying display of dominance. Gabriel would be so proud.

Although the Submissive didn’t look particularly impressed either, he did as he was bid. He rose slowly to his feet, gracefully uncoiling from his crouch, and Aziraphale’s breath stuttered in his chest as the man was revealed in all his naked glory. He was taller than Aziraphale, even if not by much, but his body was as wiry and as perfectly tuned as a violin, with no flesh to spare. He looked like a thing used to hunting in the jungle, all sharp teeth and sharper claws and glowing eyes. He was staring at Aziraphale with a steady, almost unblinking gaze, and even if his body seemed relaxed and not threatening in the slightest, there was something in the wary way he was regarding him that made Aziraphale think of a coiled snake, ready to strike.

The Submissive seemed unconcerned about his nakedness, his entire focus needle-sharp and trained on the Dominant standing in front of him. Aziraphale did his best not to look at the man’s cock. From the slightest shadow of a smirk that graced those thin lips, he doubted he was doing a particularly good job of it.

Aziraphale took a deep breath.

“You can go.”

That seemed to disrupt the Submissive’s stance like nothing that had come before. The man blinked, then frowned, then regarded Aziraphale up and down with a hard stare that had nothing submissive about it, as though he was wondering where exactly Aziraphale was stashing the knife he was undoubtedly waiting to stick into his belly.

“What did you say?”

It was the first time Aziraphale got to hear his voice. It wasn’t particularly deep, but it was smoky, a little raspy at the edges, and it suited him as much as his pale, freckled skin.

“I said,” Aziraphale repeated, slow and deliberate, “that you can go.”

“Go where? To your bedroom?”

There was something defiant there, like a sneer. Giving ground had apparently been enough to convince the Submissive to drop the act, and now the real man was standing in front of him, a coil of barely restrained violence, all taut sinews and compact muscles and screeching anger.

Aziraphale smiled serenely at him.

“Wherever you want to go.”

The Submissive seemed properly unnerved, now.

“Within the property?”

“No. Wherever you want.”

The reality of the situation seemed to hit the Submissive all of a sudden, then. He looked at Aziraphale up and down once again, then lingered onto his face, studying him with piercing amber eyes.

“You’re letting me go.”

“Yes.”

A beat. Two.

“Why?”

Aziraphale shrugged.

“I’m not interested in having a Submissive permanently chained to my floor, and you’ll run off the first chance you got. I thought it best to save everyone time and let you go straight away.”

The man scoffed in his face.

“You think you can’t keep me, so you’re giving me up before you even try. They told me you were weak, but I thought you’d at least put up a fight. Even a token one.”

The words stung, but it wouldn’t do to let the Submissive know.

Aziraphale held his best neutral expression, regarding him with placid eyes.

“I do not care much for the Council’s beliefs. A Submissive is not an animal, to be kept leashed and forced into whatever their Dominant thinks it’s appropriate. I have no interest in a Submissive who does not care for my company, or who does not want my dominance. If you wish to leave, you are free to go.”

There was a jagged sneer on the Submissive’s face.

“What a pretty speech. I’m impressed.”

The man didn’t believe him. Aziraphale had an inkling of what he’d probably gone through, and couldn’t fault him for it. A fresh wave of sorrow hit him, a deep sympathy for someone that had most likely been forced to endure things he would’ve never chosen of his own volition. Being chained to the floor of Aziraphale’s drawing-room was only the last item on the list.

Slowly, Aziraphale took his coat from the back of the chair and handed it to the man. The Submissive stared at it as though he didn’t quite know what to make of it, and did not move a finger to take it.

Aziraphale sighed again.

“You’re naked, and the room is not exactly warm. You must be cold.”

“I’m not going to wear your stuff,” the man hissed, recoiling from the proffered piece of clothing as though it was venomous. “I’d rather be naked.”

Aziraphale took the coat back.

“As you wish. It’ll be difficult to find some clothes around that will fit you, but perhaps we could ask the cook. Her son is a strapping boy.”

Aziraphale draped the coat on the back of a padded bench, and stepped around the man to reach the door. He was completely unprepared for his path to be blocked, and arched a brow at the Submissive who was now standing in front of him.

“Where are you going?” the man asked, sharp and pointed.

Aziraphale wasted a moment to be outraged by such nerve, before realising that the Submissive wasn’t being challenging, not really. He was terrified. Aziraphale had caught him off-balance, and the man had absolutely no idea about what to do to get his footing back. He couldn’t make sense of whatever was going on, and was anxiously waiting for an upcoming blow to hit him unaware. It reminded Aziraphale of a cornered cat, fear oozing off him in waves.

Aziraphale relaxed, looking up at those amber eyes. The man was rather stunning, so up close.

“I’m going to get you some clothes, unless you’d rather run off naked,” Aziraphale answered, just a touch of mischief in his voice. That seemed to do the trick. The Submissive relaxed, however slightly, and even if he didn’t seem particularly appeased by that unexpected turn of the events, at least he took a small step aside.

Aziraphale took advantage of that begrudgingly given concession and walked out of the room.

“You can come with me, or you can get a shower, while you wait,” he said over his shoulder, as he made his way to the kitchen. “Your choice.”

The Submissive snorted.

“A shower. Right.”

Aziraphale paused, looking back.

“Why not? You must be chilled to the bones, kneeling on the floor like that. And if you run off, who knows when you’ll get the luxury of hot water next.” He shrugged. “You’re already naked, after all. You can’t possibly fear that I’ll jump you unaware as you wash your hair.”

For a moment, Aziraphale thought that he’d gone too far. He hadn’t intended his little quip to be mocking, or insensitive, and he’d realised only too late that it could be interpreted as such, from someone in the man’s position. But he didn’t think that the Submissive would take too well what he’d perceive as being coddled, or worse, a sign of weakness from a spineless Dominant that he already despised, so a brutal reminder of the situation with a sprinkling of cold logic on top had seemed the best choice. As the Submissive stared him down with narrowed eyes, however, clearly trying to decide if he was being ridiculed, Aziraphale was forced to consider whether he’d put his foot in his mouth, instead of being helpful.

Thankfully, he’d judged the Submissive well.

The thin lips opened in a jagged smirk, as the man rolled his shoulders in a shrug.

“Very well.” A beat, as the Submissive took a look around. “Where is the bathroom?”

“Take those stairs to the first floor. Third door to the left.”

The Submissive regarded Aziraphale for a long moment. He had long lashes, drooping lids, and upon looking at him so close, an eye slightly bigger than the other. It was a small thing, a little asymmetry that took nothing away from the rugged handsomeness of his face, but Aziraphale found it oddly endearing.

“Is that your private bathroom?” the man asked carefully, as though he was prodding a trap.

Aziraphale chuckled.

“No. I have an en suite. That’s the guest bathroom.”

The man harrumphed, studying Aziraphale for another moment before nodding and turning on his heels. Aziraphale watched him go, powerless to look away from the swaying of his narrow hips, the little glimpses he could catch of his balls and cock from between his thighs. The Submissive moved as though he was made of molten silver, taut muscles bunching under tight skin. He seemed to catch Aziraphale’s gaze halfway up the stairs, and stopped just enough to cast a jeering scoff at him.

How mortifying.

Aziraphale coughed in his fist, trying to hide his embarrassment, and went straight to the kitchen.

Luckily, the cook did have something the Submissive could wear, and wasn’t particularly fussy about giving it away.

“Is it for the new guest?” she asked, coming back from her son’s private quarters with socks, underwear, a shirt and a pair of trousers. “It wasn’t very polite of Master Gabriel to drop him here without a warning, not very polite at all.”

Aziraphale could only nod. He’d been in town the entire afternoon, busy with an auction of rare books that he needed for his research, and Gabriel had taken advantage of his absence to drag the Submissive into his home and leave him chained in his drawing-room, knowing perfectly well that Aziraphale wouldn’t have stood for it, had he been there. But why allow him the luxury of starting his forced relationship with the Submissive he’d been given from a place of trust? No, it was much better to thrust the poor man onto him naked, cold, angry, mistrustful and possibly hungry when Aziraphale least expected it.

“Thank you, Madam,” Aziraphale said. “I’m awfully sorry to ask you for more, but do you happen to have some shoes and a coat as well that I could borrow?”

“I’ll see what I can do. What’s his shoe size?”

Aziraphale hesitated. He’d given a cursory look at the Submissive’s file, when he found him kneeling into his drawing-room, but while such details were undoubtedly there, Aziraphale had been more interested in his history of running off the first chance he got than his shoe number.

“I’m not quite sure. I’ll ask.”

“You do that,” Madame Tracy chirped, handing him the bundle of clothes. “And I’ll see what I can do about the coat.”

Aziraphale thanked her again, but the woman was already on her way, grumbling about rude Dominants who should know better than to drop unannounced in a respectable household such as theirs.

Aziraphale slowly made his way upstairs. He was half-expecting to find the bathroom empty and cold and the Submissive long gone, and was quite surprised to find the door ajar with a trickle of steam coming out of it.

“I have your clothes,” Aziraphale called from the hallway, a little tentatively.

The door opened wide, revealing a scrubbed-pink Submissive with a towel wrapped around his hips, busy rubbing his hair dry. Aziraphale did his best not to stare, but it was quite unfair to ask him not to. The man gave him a haughty glare and snatched the clothes from his hands.

“Great,” he said, slamming the door in his face. Aziraphale almost got angry for a hot minute, before giving up with a sigh. He couldn’t expect someone who was effectively a captive to be grateful for not being treated like dirt, but still, a little politeness would go a long way, in Aziraphale’s opinion.

He was busy preparing a bag in his quarters, when the Submissive came looking for him. His room wasn’t far from the guest bathroom towards which he’d directed the man, and Aziraphale had left the door open, so that the Submissive could see the lights shining into the hallway.

“I’m leaving,” the man announced, a little testily, as though he was challenging Aziraphale to forbid him to. Aziraphale found somewhat warming that he’d bothered to come all the way to tell him that himself, instead of climbing out of the window. Of course, that wouldn’t end particularly well for the Submissive, since he had no shoes and no coat, but the fact that he’d trusted Aziraphale enough to come to him of his own volition was more than what Aziraphale had been expecting.

“Very well. There’s a pair of shoes in the hallway. Try them on, they should fit.”

Since the man hadn’t seemed particularly keen on answering his questions, Aziraphale had done some digging in his file, and it’d turned out that the Submissive had exactly the same shoe number as the gamekeeper. Mr. Shadwell hadn’t been particularly enthusiastic about giving away his shoes, but Madame Tracy had a way with him, and eventually a pair of mud-crusted boots had found their way to Aziraphale’s quarters.

The Submissive nodded and disappeared behind the door. A moment later he was back, dark trousers stuck into the high rims of a pair of combat boots.

“Are they all right?”

The Submissive gave a noncommittal shrug.

“They don’t smell particularly good, but yeah. They’ll do.”

It was a little odd to see him dressed. Newton’s clothes were a bit too big for him, which in turn made him look lankier than he actually was. He’d pushed his red hair away from his face, and Aziraphale noticed a small tattoo on the side of his head–a coiled snake, no bigger than the first two phalanges of Aziraphale’s little finger, inked into his cheek close to his right ear. Aziraphale thought it rather fitting.

“Take this, it’s cold outside,” he said, handing him Newton’s coat. “Don’t worry. It’s not mine.”

“I know,” the Submissive answered, slipping into it. “It doesn’t smell like you.”

It was such an intimate thing to say, however casual the delivery, that Aziraphale’s breath caught a bit in his throat.

“Well,” he coughed, trying to get his bearings back. How silly of him, getting all worked up over such a little thing. “There’s some food in the bag. A blanket. Clean socks and a few more pairs of underwear.”

Aziraphale frowned, trying to think about anything else the man could find useful.

“I have actually no idea what you might need,” he admitted rather sheepishly. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“That’s pretty self-evident,” the Submissive chuckled. It was the first time Aziraphale had seen something that wasn’t a sneer or a grimace on his face, and he looked younger with that shadow of a smile, less guarded. It lasted a split of a second–just the time for Aziraphale to blink, and it was gone.

“Give me that,” the Submissive sighed when it became clear that Aziraphale was having A Moment, standing there frozen like a tit with a leather bag in his hands. “It’ll work. Don’t worry.”

Of all the things Aziraphale had thought he was going to hear, being reassured by the prickly Submissive who not one hour before had been chained to the floor of his drawing-room was not one of them. It startled him a little, but it worked well enough to drag him back to the present. He handed over the bag without a word, and the man took it, their fingers brushing for one charged moment.

“I have money, too,” Aziraphale blurted out. He picked up the roll of notes he’d put aside and handed it to him. “It should help.”

The Submissive reached for it, taking it slowly.

“Has it ever occurred to you that I could simply knock you over the head, steal everything you have and run away?” the man asked, searching his eyes as though Aziraphale was a book written in a language that he couldn’t quite understand.

Aziraphale shrugged.

“Of course not. You never did.”

Mentioning his file was perhaps the wrong move. The Submissive straightened up, eyes hardening as he scowled at Aziraphale.

“And I always got caught. Perhaps I should change my methods.”

Aziraphale knew that the man was trying to be intimidating, to assert his own strength, but Aziraphale simply couldn’t picture him doing something so vile as taking by force what was willingly offered.

“I don’t think you will.”

“Because I’m too weak?”

“Because you’re too kind.”

That was enough to startle a bitter laugh out of the man. He looked at Aziraphale with something warring between anger and contempt.

“You don’t know a single damn thing. You’re the most stupid Dominant I’ve ever seen.”

Aziraphale shrugged. He knew he should’ve been outraged by such blatant disrespect, but he guessed the prickliness of the man was growing on him.

“I know that you have a head-start on the Council, but it’s not going to last forever. Gabriel will come back in three days to see how you’re doing, and he’ll demand to meet you. I’ll be able to cover your escape until then, but if you won’t be here by the time Gabriel shows up, they’ll know you’re gone. And they’ll come after you.”

Aziraphale got a long, hard stare for his trouble. The Submissive regarded him in silence for so long that Aziraphale was actually thinking to clear his throat and break what was becoming an almost unbearable silence, when the man stretched out the hand that wasn’t holding the money and offered it to him.

“I’m Crowley,” he said. Such a simple thing, but Aziraphale felt his heart thunder in his ears.

He knew the name, of course, it was in the file, but hearing it from his lips made it real. Not the Submissive, or the man. Crowley.

He took the proffered hand. It was a bony hand, hard and unbending, but the skin was dry and soft against Aziraphale’s palm.

“Aziraphale.”

His own hand felt cold, when Crowley let it go.

“Goodbye, Aziraphale,” he said, stuffing the money into a pocket of his coat and slinging the bag over his shoulder. He turned on his heels, and then he was gone.

“Best of luck,” Aziraphale wished to his retreating shadow.

Something told him that he’d be seeing Crowley again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This comes much, _much_ earlier than I expected, but I've found myself with some time on my hands, and, before I knew it, the new chapter was ready. I couldn’t remember the last time I wrote 8K+ words in one go, and since this story has been received with such enthusiasm, I decided to share this little Christmas gift with you. Many thanks to anyone who took the time to leave kudos and especially comments, every single one of them made me stupidly happy <3
> 
> For this chapter, **CW** for some vague dub-con towards the end.  
> 

The book was beautiful, and very, very old. Although Aziraphale knew it was sturdier than it seemed, the pages looked as brittle as withered leaves in their ancient bindings, and eagerness warred with reverence as he turned them with painstaking carefulness. The ink was shockingly bright for a book that age, and the gilded miniatures were breathtaking as they caught the light streaming in bright beams into the study.

Aziraphale furrowed his brows. Too much light. That simply wouldn’t do. He took off his gloves and adjusted the shades, plunging the room in darkness. His lamp, set at an adequate distance and at the right intensity, was the only source of light left.

Aziraphale was about to delve back into his book when he heard a knock at the door. He sighed, trying to keep his annoyance in check. His household knew not to disturb him in his study unless it was absolutely necessary, so he had to guess that, whatever it was, it needed his immediate attention.

“Come,” he said.

The door opened slowly, silently, revealing the tall, willowy shape of his head of staff. Anathema bowed her head slightly in greeting.

“Apologies for disturbing you, Master Aziraphale. Master Gabriel is here, and demands to see you.”

Aziraphale’s breath caught. Right. It’d been three days since Crowley had suddenly turned up into his life and just as quickly disappeared forever from it, and Aziraphale had known that that moment was going to come. He’d been dreading Gabriel’s visit, and he’d been conveniently burying himself in his work to avoid thinking about it, but the time for dallying was over.

“Show him to the drawing-room, my dear,” he instructed her, trying to keep a suitably firm voice. “I’ll be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

He’d done his best to cover his reluctance, but from the keen glance Anathema threw at him, Aziraphale knew that his acting skills had not much improved since the last time he’d been forced to employ them. Nothing, however, transpired from the respectful tone of her voice.

“Yes, Master Aziraphale.”

The door closed behind her as silently as it’d been opened, and Aziraphale allowed himself the luxury of drawing a deep, shaky breath.

He could do that. Anathema had been more than willing to help him in his little charade, and he knew that not one member of his household would betray him, was Gabriel to question them. Yet, Aziraphale had never been particularly good at holding his own against other Dominants, Gabriel and his Council in particular, and he knew he was at fault. According to rules, he should’ve informed the Council the precise instant Crowley’s disappearance had become known, and his negligence could (and most probably would) be punished, if the Council were to become aware of it.

Anathema, who’d never liked the Council in general and Gabriel in particular, had come up with an idea that would probably spare him the worst of it, but Aziraphale wasn’t particularly worried about punishment. If a Dominant was charged with negligence in the subject of a partnership, the usual penalty was a lifelong ban from being assigned another Submissive, which not only did end up lasting a significantly shorter time, but also didn’t concern Aziraphale overmuch. He’d never wanted a Submissive in the first place, and the one he’d wound up almost considering in the past three days was long gone. No, that wasn’t what Aziraphale dreaded the most.

It was the contempt.

Aziraphale was well aware of what Gabriel and almost all the other Dominants he knew thought of him. Weak-willed. Incompetent. Gullible. Too stupid and inept to be handed a Submissive. Losing Crowley after three days was probably what the whole bunch of them had been expecting.

Aziraphale had been nothing but laughing stock for so long that he should’ve got used to it by now, but it always stung. That was the reason he’d chosen a hermit life, alone with his books, where nothing and no one would question his preferences, his conduct or his lifestyle. He wasn’t afraid of either Gabriel or his Council, but he dreaded the look of resigned, predictable disappointment he knew was going to blossom on Gabriel’s face the moment he was informed of the Submissive’s disappearance.

Aziraphale stood up slowly and put the illuminated manuscript reverently back into its carved wooden case, where it would be safe from sudden sources of light. His study was maintained at a fixed temperature, cooler than the rest of the house, and it was equipped with a humidity-control system. Unlike the spacious library on the other side of the complex, which contained the majority of his books, his study had been specifically modified to store the rarest, most delicate volumes and keep them in perfect conditions.

Once the book was safely put away, Aziraphale slowly pulled off his gloves and forced himself to join Gabriel. That was the first time he’d set foot into his drawing-room since he’d found Crowley chained to its floor, and his eyes couldn’t avoid lingering for a moment on the dull metal ring lying unassumingly upon the wooden beams, as he stepped through the door.

Gabriel was standing in front of the huge window, his back to him, apparently focused on the garden. Aziraphale doubted very much that the sad state of his estate met his approval. Gabriel had no eye for beauty, but he appreciated order, and Aziraphale’s garden was everything but. It’d been six months since his gardener had left, but despite Anathema’s constant nagging, Aziraphale could never bring himself to go through the grinding and frankly boring process of finding a new one. He could’ve left the entire thing in Anathema’s hands, of course, but Anathema had sternly refused. He was the master of the estate, and there were certain duties that were his by right, and that he should not allow to be taken from him. It had seemed quite an unnecessarily harsh view to take about such a simple concept as hiring the help, but Anathema had been immovable on the subject, and Aziraphale had eventually given in and promised he’d deal with it. At some point.

Maybe Gabriel and the Council did have a point about his sad Dominant skills, if even his head of staff could bully him so.

Aziraphale took a deep breath, before gently closing the door behind him. Gabriel didn’t move from his silent contemplation.

“Good afternoon, Aziraphale,” he said, voice deep and as perfectly tuned as a fine instrument. “I hope I’m not inconveniencing you.”

Aziraphale struggled not to wince at the subtle reproach, tugging instinctively at his waistcoat to cover how anxious he actually was.

“Of course not, Gabriel. Your visits are always a pleasure.”

It was such a blatant lie that Aziraphale wondered how his teeth were not rotting into his mouth at the sheer outrageousness of it, but he forced himself to pull his lips into an insincere smile.

Gabriel uncrossed his arms and finally turned towards him. He was wearing a blinding white suit, with a lavender tie that brought out almost aggressively the impossible violet of his eyes.

“Your garden needs tending,” he observed.

How predictable.

“My gardener left quite suddenly,” Aziraphale lied. “I’m in the process of hiring someone new.”

“I hope it won’t take too long. You can’t be satisfied with something like that right outside your window.” Gabriel smiled, one of those smiles that Gabriel sincerely thought were pleasant and soothing to see, but that made Aziraphale’s skin crawl. “You’re a more daring man than I am, I suppose. I’d have put someone to work at it straight away.”

Aziraphale knew that Gabriel was making what he considered quite an extraordinary concession, stating that Aziraphale could be better than him in any context, even in jest, but he didn’t feel particularly blessed with such a privilege.

There was a reason Gabriel was the head of the Council, and it wasn’t only because he descended from one of the families that had founded it, more than three centuries before. Handsome, self-possessed and impeccably groomed, Gabriel was the perfect poster boy for such an organisation–even more, he was everything a Dominant could ever aspire to be. He was loathed, resented and envied in turn, but no Dominant in their right mind would turn down the chance of being him for a day, if they could ever be granted such a blessing. Aziraphale himself was not above feeling a bit jealous of his confidence, from time to time.

“Is there anything I could help you with?” Aziraphale asked, deciding to get to the point. He’d love to give Crowley some more time, but he knew it was just a question of minutes, now. He wouldn’t be able to hold Gabriel indefinitely, and he wasn’t sure how long he could tolerate his presence in his house. He could feel his skin itch with the need to give him a good kick on his way out, and he could feel the impending threat of Gabriel’s obvious, disgusted contempt weigh as heavy as a boulder over his shoulders. Better to get it over with.

Gabriel’s winning smile didn’t waver.

“It’s more about what _I_ can do to help _you_ ,” he offered, implying that Aziraphale was in fact in need of his assistance. It was insulting, but what was worse was that Gabriel didn’t see it as such. He was genuine in his wish to help out a struggling, substandard Dominant with his expertise in everything concerning such a privileged position.

“I’m not sure I understand,” Aziraphale answered, low and a little subdued. He realised he was clenching his fists, and forced himself to relax.

Gabriel came closer in a few long strides, laying a hand on his shoulder. It took everything Aziraphale had not to recoil from the unwanted touch.

“I realise how difficult this situation must be for you,” Gabriel said, in a ridiculously eager tone. “It must seem like a punishment, to the untrained eye. But please, remember that we know what we’re doing.”

“A punishment?” Aziraphale repeated dully, struggling to keep still under Gabriel’s hand instead of pulling away.

Gabriel’s grip on his shoulder tightened in a way that Gabriel probably thought was soothing.

“Being paired with Crowley, of course,” he explained. His violet eyes seemed almost opalescent, so up close. “An inferior Submissive, insubordinate, disrespectful, untrustworthy, who struggles to follow orders, resents discipline and can’t be left unattended. You must think us a bunch of fools for having given someone like that to _you_.”

The off-handed insult stung, but the injustice of a Submissive being spoken of like that made Aziraphale’s temper flare. No human being deserved to be called _inferior_ , and certainly not Crowley. Aziraphale had barely exchanged a handful of words with the man, but he’d seen keen intelligence in his eyes, and a frankly astonishing ability to handle his own body and his own temper, when he thought the occasion called for it. There was nothing _inferior_ about the man.

“I would never presume to question the Council’s decisions,” Aziraphale answered, rather stiffly.

Gabriel sighed, finally letting him go. It took Aziraphale all he had to stifle a sigh of relief.

“I know you wouldn’t,” Gabriel said, making it sound like a fault of his nature to be so docile and unwilling to fight back. “You are soft, Aziraphale, which is why I think Crowley will be good for you. I’ve met quite a few Submissives like him, spiteful, bitter about their own nature. They need a steady hand. And he might just be what you need, let’s say, to grow into your role.”

Aziraphale was livid with anger. His fists were clenched so tight he could feel the painful pressure of his short nails digging into his palms.

“I’m grateful to the Council for the trust they are putting in me,” he forced himself to answer, every single word punched rather unwillingly out of his mouth.

Gabriel beamed at him.

“I knew you’d take it that way. The others weren’t too sure, with your frankly worrying testiness in refusing a partner for so long, but I had faith in you. Which is why I’m here today.” Gabriel paused, waiting for an answer, but Aziraphale had nothing to say. “To see how you’re doing,” he supplied eventually, when he realised that no reply was forthcoming, “and to help. We are not abandoning you, Aziraphale. We want you to have all the support you need as you transition into your new partnership.”

“How kind.”

“Yes, well. You may be a little... quirky, but you’re still one of our own.” Gabriel’s smile grew two sizes, at that display of unmatched sharp-wittedness. “So, where is Crowley? I half-expected to find him exactly where I left him. You can’t really trust him to go about on his own, after all.”

Aziraphale felt something lodge into his throat. Swallowing had suddenly become a feat.

“I’ll ask Anathema to fetch him.”

It was her idea, after all. She’d pretend to go to his room to find that Crowley had quite shockingly made an escape, after three days of captivity. She’d never met him, having been in town for a commission when Gabriel delivered him, and wasn’t convinced that their decision had been the best in either Aziraphale’s or Crowley’s interest, but she had no intention of letting anyone punish Aziraphale for being kind. The rest of his staff was more or less of the same mind, even Mr. Shadwell, if begrudgingly so. Their regard was heart-warming. Aziraphale didn’t feel he’d done anything to deserve it, and he treasured it like the precious privilege that it was.

“Anathema?” Gabriel asked curiously. “Still calling your staff by their given names?”

Aziraphale shrugged, heading towards the button craftily concealed into the colourful wallpaper. He turned his back to Gabriel in doing so, and was grateful for the respite.

“It’s a habit,” he replied weakly, ringing for Anathema.

“Perhaps you should consider changing it,” Gabriel suggested after a moment, when Anathema failed to show up.

Aziraphale chuckled a bit nervously, ringing again. This time, it was shortly followed by a curt knock.

“Come,” Aziraphale called.

Anathema opened the door. There was something a little off about her, but Aziraphale didn’t have the time or the luxury to investigate it any further.

“My apologies, Master Aziraphale. I was delayed in the kitchen.”

“It’s no matter,” Aziraphale reassured her. “Could you please find Crowley and bring him here?”

Anathema’s big dark eyes bore into Aziraphale’s. It was a steady, pointed stare, which Aziraphale did not understand in the slightest.

“I’ll fetch him right away, Master Aziraphale.”

She was gone in a blur of deep-blue skirts and long brown hair before Aziraphale could think of a reply. Gabriel coughed meaningfully into his fist.

“You have quite the interesting staff here, Aziraphale.”

A lack of answer seemed to Aziraphale the best reply, and they both settled into a silent wait, quite uncomfortable on Aziraphale’s part, and obviously bored on Gabriel’s. Aziraphale did his best to appear collected and unconcerned under Gabriel’s watchful eye, but knowing that he would have to fake shock and surprise quite soon did very little to help him along. He could feel his heart in his throat, and it took him all he had to keep himself from fidgeting.

He almost jumped out of his skin when he heard the delicate knock at the door.

“Come,” he ordered, cringing at the odd, strangled quality of his voice.

It turned out that he had no need to fake either shock or surprise, when the door opened.

Aziraphale blinked, once, twice, trying to make sense of what he was staring at. He had no idea what his face must have looked like, but a small, still-rational part of his brain was quite relieved that Gabriel wasn’t able to see it from that angle.

“...Crowley?”

The man bowed his head respectfully, in a sway of red hair.

“Master.”

He didn’t look worse for the wear, though Aziraphale recognised the same clothes he’d sent him away in, dirty and speckled in mud. His hair had lost some of its shine, falling on his shoulders in a matted, tangled mass, but his face was surprisingly clean, if hastily shaved, with a few nicks here and there. His eyes were the same brilliant shade of amber that Aziraphale hadn’t been able to chase out of his mind.

“Well, isn’t that a wonder!” Gabriel cheerfully commented. “You’ve managed to keep him around, I see. Without a leash. And he calls you _master_. I must say, Aziraphale, I’m quite impressed.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale answered, in a dull voice. He couldn’t take his eyes off Crowley. His stance was perfect, the bow of his head nothing short of respectful, but there was the tiny whisper of a smirk on his lips. Aziraphale didn’t know what to make of it.

“He looks a little grimy, though,” Gabriel observed, stepping closer. Aziraphale saw the almost-smirk disappear like a droplet in the desert from Crowley’s face, replaced by a blank expression. “What have you been doing with him?”

Aziraphale thought quickly.

“He was out with the gamekeeper. He wanted to see the grounds.”

Gabriel’s eyes turned sharp, looking at Crowley up and down.

“The _gamekeeper_ ,” he repeated, clearly struggling to keep the distaste from his voice. “Is that wise, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale almost snorted at him.

“I don’t think there is any reason for concern lying that way, Gabriel. Crowley is perfectly safe in the hands of Mr. Shadwell.”

Gabriel shifted his gaze from Crowley to Aziraphale, looking far from convinced. Crowley took the chance to send a rather vicious glare in Aziraphale’s direction, making well known what he thought about being in need of having his virtue protected in any way from any possible gamekeeper.

“Still. I don’t think it’s a good idea to give him so much leeway, just yet.” Gabriel gave Aziraphale his best condescending smile. “I appreciate that you’re new at this, but you should keep a tighter leash on your Submissive, at least while he’s settling in. Independence and trust should be earned. They are not a given right. And Submissives who misbehave should not be rewarded.”

Gabriel looked for all the world as though he was imparting, in infinite wisdom, an especially important lesson. Aziraphale didn’t feel particularly grateful for the privilege, and, from the look of it, neither did Crowley.

“Yes, well. I’ll surely be thinking about it, but Crowley’s behaviour so far has been impeccable.”

Gabriel sniffed, telegraphing without a word what he thought about Aziraphale’s parameters for impeccability. He took another step towards Crowley, and Aziraphale had to make a conscious effort to stop himself from dragging him back. Crowley’s shoulders were so rigid he looked like he would break if he tried to bend.

“And where’s his collar?”

The world came to a halt. The blasted collar, of course. It was unthinkable for a bonded Submissive to stroll around without one, the law was unforgiving on the matter. Gabriel was staring at Crowley’s neck with something close to horror, and Aziraphale had no answer to give.

Luckily for him, Crowley was quicker to think on his feet.

“It should be almost ready,” he answered, in a low, respectful voice. “Master Aziraphale put in the order just yesterday.”

Gabriel’s frown turned from concerned to merely disdainful.

“You should not be speaking to me without being spoken to first, you know that,” he chided him, rather sternly. “Is that what you call impeccable manners, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale shrugged, a little guiltily. The ghost of a smirk was playing again on Crowley’s lips, now that Gabriel was looking away.

“He’s rather strong-willed, but I think we are making progress.”

“Progress,” Gabriel repeated, looking rather unconvinced. “Of course. Well. I’ll be dropping by in a few weeks, to see how this progress of yours is coming along.” He graced Crowley with another stern look. “And be sure to get him a collar as soon as possible. It’s disgraceful, letting him roam about without one. It’s not safe. Why haven’t you used the one we provided for him, as you waited for the new one?”

Aziraphale grasped desperately for an answer.

“It seemed like he was allergic to it. He said it chafed.”

Gabriel stared at him as though he was beholding the biggest dullard he’d ever seen.

“Crowley said it chafed,” he repeated, very slowly. “I see.” He shook his head. “Please, get him a collar. And reconsider the leash. It’s not safe to allow him to go around unsupervised. He’s not the kind of Submissive you can trust.”

Aziraphale fought the need to scoff in his face.

“I will,” he lied. He made a show of looking outside, where the shadows were getting progressively longer, and then at the antique clock mounted upon the wall. “My goodness, look at the time. You’d better get going, Gabriel. Needle’s Eye is quite a long way from the city, and the traffic is rather dreadful at this time of the day. I would never dream of holding you up any longer.”

Gabriel looked unconvinced.

“If you need any help...”

“I won’t hesitate to contact you, Gabriel,” Aziraphale earnestly answered. “I know I can always count on your support.”

Gabriel turned his attention to Crowley, studying him with a critical eye.

“See that you do. Have a good evening, Aziraphale.”

“Same to you, Gabriel,” Aziraphale dutifully told his retreating back. He feared for a moment that Crowley would keep the path blocked just to be spiteful, but the Submissive respectfully bowed his head and stepped aside. Gabriel walked out of the door, and Crowley closed it behind him.

Aziraphale found the first available armchair and let himself fall on the padded seat with a groan. He closed his eyes for a moment, scrubbing a hand over his face. He was half-certain that Crowley would be gone, by the time he opened them back again, but he was still there. He’d lost the submissive stance he’d so flawlessly held while Gabriel was around, and was now regarding Aziraphale with wary eyes.

Aziraphale sighed, deep and almost resigned.

“What am I supposed to do with you?” he asked to no one in particular. Crowley stiffened at the tone.

“You heard him,” he sneered, in that smoky voice of his. “You should collar me and keep me on a leash.”

Aziraphale scoffed.

“I’m not going to keep on a leash someone who very obviously doesn’t want to, but I’m afraid you will have to wear a collar, if you want to stay.” He paused, suddenly aware of the implications in his little speech. “Do you _want_ to stay?”

Crowley opened his arms in a defeated gesture.

“What choice do I have?” he almost growled. “Once the Council catches wind of my disappearance, there will be no town, no city that will shelter me. I’ll be forced to live in the wild. I tried already. I did. Seven times. They found me wherever I went.”

There was an edge to his voice that spoke almost of desperation. Aziraphale felt his heart constrict in his chest at the flat hopelessness ringing in his words.

“I won’t survive alone like that. I _can’t_. And when the Council finds me, they will force me to go through their blasted training again and send me to someone else.” Crowley’s eyes were shining, like polished amber. His voice was cracking. Aziraphale had to use every ounce of control he had left not to get on his feet and go to him, to soothe that unbearable, all-encompassing grief. “If I have to be somewhere, I might just as well be here.”

That wasn’t exactly the most enthusiastic assent Aziraphale could wish for, but he had an inkling that it was all he was going to get.

“Is that what you want, then?” he asked, rather dubiously. “To stay here, as my Submissive?”

Was that what _Aziraphale_ wanted? If he’d been asked one week before whether he wished to be bonded to a Submissive for the rest of his life, Aziraphale would’ve probably said no. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Not to any Submissive, perhaps, but he found himself quite unwilling to let this particular one go. He’d done it once, and wasn’t exceedingly keen on doing it again. And Crowley was right. Turning him away would probably mean nothing but additional misery for a man that seemed to have received already more than his fair share, and Aziraphale wasn’t heartless enough to refuse him the help he very obviously needed.

Crowley’s eyes turned hard at the question, despite the glistening of unshed tears. He looked like he was going to balk, for a moment, but he deflated just as quickly.

“Yes,” he simply answered.

Aziraphale thought it over for a moment.

“There are a few things we’ll need to talk about,” he warned him. “And we’ll need to make a few arrangements. But all right. You can stay.”

Aziraphale realised belatedly that he hadn’t been actually asked for permission, just made aware of the fact, and he felt his forehead draw up in a frown. That wouldn’t do, it wouldn’t do at all. But first things first. Crowley looked dirty and dejected, surely cold, possibly hungry, and serious discussions could keep until later.

“You’ll need to get a shower, first,” he brusquely instructed, “and change into clean clothes. I’ll tell Madame Tracy to prepare something for you, since I imagine you must be famished. Then we’ll talk.”

Crowley nodded. His eyes were downcast, the fight drained from him. He looked gorgeous and rather pitiful at the same time. Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to hold him close, to soothe him, but there was a peculiar quality to that need–he wanted to _take charge_ of him, with an almost biting, blistering urge, to take him by the hand, wash him himself, dress him and collar him and feed him little bites from his plate as Crowley knelt between his legs. He wanted to keep him safe and sound and _his_ , with such a screaming, pummelling hunger that all he could do was to watch him go in silence. But it was too soon for all of that. There was way too much they needed to talk about, before they even approached something of the like.

Aziraphale sighed at Crowley’s retreating shadow, rubbing again a hand over his face. He had to resign himself to being patient, it seemed. He couldn’t rightly say when exactly that had become so difficult.

* * *

One hour later, Crowley was sitting at the mahogany table of Aziraphale’s drawing-room, scrubbed clean and with another set of too-large clothes hiding his lithe form. He’d partially tied his hair up in a little bun at the back of his head, uncovering the snake tattoo, and was eyeing the light supper spread out in front of him somewhat mistrustfully.

“Well? Aren’t you hungry?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley threw him a wary look.

“I am,” he slowly admitted, as though he was conceding to a dangerous weakness.

Aziraphale frowned at him, a little puzzled.

“Why aren’t you eating, then?”

Crowley looked down at the soup in front of him, hot enough that a trickle of steam was rising from the bowl.

“I wasn’t sure I was allowed to.”

“Of course you are,” Aziraphale replied, puzzlement giving way to concern. “Was that something you were not allowed to do before?”

Crowley titled his head.

“Not always,” he answered, a bit guardedly, as though he was waiting for the plate to be taken from him the moment he let on how much he wanted it. “And not always by myself.”

Aziraphale boggled a little at the implication. He’d wanted to feed Crowley, too, but not like that. Not like an imposition. It was an abhorrent thought. He wasn’t used to being ashamed of his desires, and didn’t like the experience one bit.

“You will _always_ be allowed to eat, by yourself or otherwise, whichever way you choose,” Aziraphale rushed to reassure him. It came out a little more awkward than he’d hoped it would, and Crowley didn’t look particularly reassured either, but it would have to do for now. “Please. Eat.”

Crowley stared at him with brows that reached his hairline, and it took Aziraphale a moment to realise the source of his astonishment. Aziraphale took a spoonful of his own soup, deliberately slowly, before cocking his head and arching a brow at him.

“I guess you weren’t gifted with the most polite Dominants,” he commented.

Crowley held the stare for a moment, before huffing out a chuckle.

“That’s one word for it,” he answered, and the mood seemed to settle after that little exchange. Crowley ate with appetite, spoonful after spoonful of thick potato leek soup, slathering the sliced bread with spreads and finishing his light meal with an apple. He’d eyed the water with a little disappointment at first, but he hadn’t offered any comment to Aziraphale’s choice. Aziraphale himself was partial to wine, but he wanted them both to be sober for what was to come. He had a nagging suspicion that Crowley would’ve rather been mindlessly drunk, though. It was a sad thought to have.

“Are you going to tell me what you’ve been up to, during the past three days?” Aziraphale asked, almost casually, as their dinner was coming to an end.

Crowley shrugged.

“Nothing much. Walked about. Tried to stay out of sight. Thought about the entire thing. Thought about it _a lot_.” He braced his elbows on the table, propped his chin on his linked hands. “I had clothes, I had money, and I could go wherever I wanted. I’ve never had that before. Of course, I knew the Council was going to come looking for me after today, but until then I was free.” There was a thoughtful expression on his face. He looked remote, not exactly morose, but vaguely resigned. “I was free, for the first time in my life. And I realised that I had no idea what to do, where to go. I didn’t even know what I _wanted_ to do. I felt... lost.” He straightened up, looked to the side, disgust painted all over his face. “What a fucking waste.”

Aziraphale felt the pull, the _need_ to reach out and take his hand, but he valiantly kept himself in check. He grasped for an orange, for want of things to do with his hands, and started to pull off the peel.

“I know you don’t care much for my opinion, but I don’t think it’s something you should blame yourself for,” he said. The tart scent of the peeled orange reached his nose, made his eyes sting a little. “Being free and knowing how to use that freedom are very different concepts.”

“You sound exactly like those assholes in the Council,” Crowley snarled. “I’m a Submissive, I wouldn’t know what to do with freedom.”

Aziraphale hummed. He’d finished peeling the orange, and he pulled it open, tearing off a wedge. He caught himself before he offered it to Crowley. He wished nothing more than to draw him to his side and feed him one wedge after the other, the man’s lips grazing his fingertips, but he was pretty sure that was not a scenario Crowley would appreciate. He wondered a little dejectedly if that idea would ever be met with anything other than disgust.

“That’s not what I’m saying, on the contrary,” he explained. “I’m saying that being suddenly free and not knowing what to do with it is a perfectly normal reaction. People who have been free all their lives don’t know what to do with it, at times, and you’ve never even had the luxury of planning for it in advance.” He popped the wedge into his mouth, chewed on it slowly, and finally swallowed. “What I’m saying is that it has nothing to do with your being a Submissive. Freedom can be rather intimidating, but that doesn’t mean you’re not worthy of it.”

Crowley’s eyes were sharp, now.

“You do think I should be free, then.”

Aziraphale shrugged. It wasn’t exactly the sort of discussion he’d been aiming for over dinner. He tried to wiggle away from it.

“I let you go, didn’t I?”

“Why haven’t you tried to talk to the Council, then?” Crowley pressed on, unwilling to let him off the hook so easily. “If you don’t think what they’re doing is right, why haven’t you said something about it?”

Aziraphale sighed. They _were_ having that conversation, then.

“I did. I did talk to the Council. I was young, and foolish, and I stood there and petitioned for Submissives to be free.” He shrugged again. “I got laughed out of the room.”

Crowley stared at him as though he’d grown a second head. The concept that Dominants could be laughed at, apparently, had never even crossed his mind.

Aziraphale sighed again.

“It’s a complicated subject, and I was too naive and ignorant to be taken seriously,” he explained. “The reality is, Submissives and Dominants need each other. That’s why the Council is so careful to track us down. If another member of the population is to live alone, unbonded, that has no repercussions on anyone but themselves. Submissives and Dominants cannot. Alone, we’re unbalanced. We can’t keep ourselves under control, and therefore we become a danger to ourselves and others. We _need_ to be part of an organised system.” He shook his head, popping another wedge into his mouth. “The fact that the system is flawed, well, that’s another matter entirely.”

Crowley was staring at him with narrowed eyes.

“That’s not exactly the Council’s view,” he pointed out.

Aziraphale nodded.

“Yes, they’re very keen on the Submissives’ inability to live a balanced life without the right partner, but they’re not so interested in sharing that the same is true for Dominants.”

“If the system is flawed, it should be changed.”

“I agree. But it’s not as easy as that. It’s an old system, and the people who are favoured the most by this system are obviously not particularly eager to lose their privileges.”

Crowley scowled at him.

“And what are _you_ doing to change it?” he demanded, harsh and full of anger.

Aziraphale thought it over. He’d be happy to talk to Crowley about his work, in detail and at length, but he wasn’t sure that was the time. It was getting late, and there was still much to do before they could rest. Furthermore, although he would be perfectly content to answer every question Crowley might want to ask, he was not amenable to being interrogated by his Submissive in those tones. Gabriel thought that he was a pushover, a poor imitation of a real Dominant, but Aziraphale knew perfectly well when to put his foot down. He was not cruel, nor interested in squashing down a Submissive’s spirit until there was nothing left, but he wasn’t going to let his own Submissive walk all over him. It wouldn’t do any good to either of them. Aziraphale would resent it, and his Submissive would eventually suffer from that lack of order.

Aziraphale met Crowley’s amber eyes with an imperturbable, firm expression, staring him down.

“I’ll be happy to talk to you about my work, if that’s something you’re interested in, but I will _not_ be questioned by you,” he calmly stated. “Besides, we have more urgent matters to discuss right now. You’re going to need clothes, to begin with, and I’ll not be able to spare you a collar, if you want to stay. We’ll need to take care of all that tomorrow, first thing in the morning.”

“Sure,” Crowley almost hissed. “Clothes. A _collar_. Anything else?”

Aziraphale toyed with a bit of orange peel, thinking things over. He’d already made a decision of what was to come next, of course, but he wasn’t sure he liked it. Discipline had never been his strongest asset, even if occasionally he’d enjoyed dishing it out, when the Submissive he was with needed it and wished it. He wasn’t sure this was the case. But he couldn’t let it slide. If they were to have a partnership, he couldn’t let Crowley think even for a moment that Aziraphale wasn’t in control of what was happening. If Crowley couldn’t trust Aziraphale’s ability to keep him from spiralling, to maintain order in the chaos, their relationship was bound to fail. He needed to make Crowley understand that excesses would not be tolerated, and that he could trust Aziraphale to make sure that Crowley would not hurt others or himself with rash, dangerous decisions. He needed Crowley to understand that Aziraphale would not waver in his task, that he would not be bullied or pushed into making a wrong choice. He needed Crowley to trust Aziraphale to keep control, when Crowley had none left to spare.

“You know what else,” he said eventually, when the silence grew too heavy to be borne. “You pushed me, today. You could’ve come to me earlier, talked to me. We could’ve made a decision together. Instead, you thrust your own decision upon your Dominant, endangering this household, endangering me, and, worst of all, endangering yourself. This is _not_ how this relationship is going to work.”

All the colour seemed to draw from Crowley’s cheeks. It was a worrying reaction, but Aziraphale refused to let himself be moved. If he backed down now, he’d never recover the ground he’d lost, and they’d both suffer from it.

He kept calm, steady eyes on Crowley, waiting him out. He watched him swallow once, twice, throat working under the pale skin. His amber eyes were huge on his drawn face.

“You intend to punish me.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale paused. “That is, if you truly want to be my Submissive.”

Crowley’s throat clicked again. He looked down on the table for a moment, then looked up. There was a flinty look in his eyes, a look that Aziraphale couldn’t quite place.

“All right. Sure. Whatever you want.”

That wasn’t exactly what Aziraphale had hoped for. He frowned at him.

“Crowley, you need to understand why, or it’ll all be for naught.”

“I do understand,” Crowley hissed, standing up on his feet, “and you don’t need to treat me like a child. I’m not stupid. I don’t need to be coddled either. If you want to punish me, then punish me, and let’s be done with it.”

Aziraphale regarded him for a long moment. Crowley had his hands balled into fists, his breath coming harsh and ragged. He looked one step away from falling apart, and Aziraphale couldn’t tell if he needed more control or less. His own reasoning was sound, though, and he had an inkling that either choice would bring them its fair share of misery. They were stuck, it seemed. Perhaps, showing Crowley that punishment could be enjoyable instead of cruel would help. Aziraphale had honestly no idea. He’d never had to deal with such a situation before.

He rose slowly on his feet, deciding to ignore the way Crowley had winced at the movement.

“Follow me, then.”

Aziraphale headed towards the door, walking slowly but surely, and rang for Anathema. He made certain that he was telegraphing every movement, lest Crowley thought that he was going to receive his punishment when he wasn’t ready for it.

“We’re going to retire, now,” Aziraphale announced, when Anathema showed up. “Please, be a dear and take care of the cleaning-up for me.”

“Of course, Master Aziraphale,” Anathema agreed, bowing her head slightly. She threw a curious glance at Crowley, who was standing stiff and ghastly pale behind him, but made no comment.

Aziraphale made his way up the stairs, not bothering to look back to check whether Crowley was following him. He reached his room and opened the door, holding it for the other man to go through first. Crowley hesitated, eyeing him warily, then took a small breath and went in. Aziraphale followed, closing the door behind.

“Take off your clothes, please,” Aziraphale instructed him. It was ordered gently, politely, but it was an order nonetheless.

Crowley started to remove his shirt, refusing to look at him. Aziraphale was not pleased with that, since he’d rather have his Submissive’s attention focused on him instead on whatever was going on in their head, but Crowley looked so anxious that Aziraphale decided to let it pass. They would have plenty of time to correct Crowley’s behaviour, and Aziraphale didn’t want to push him too far too soon. The fact alone that he was accepting Aziraphale’s punishment was a huge act of trust, and Aziraphale had every intention to make good of it. He was planning for some light spanking, nothing too dire, followed by a rather thorough aftercare. He had an inkling that while Crowley was well acquainted with the first part, the second had been lacking in his education. Aziraphale fully intended to remedy that.

Crowley had finished unbuttoning Newton’s oversized shirt, and his naked chest was just as lean and deliciously shaped as Aziraphale remembered. He looked his fill, openly and unashamedly, as his Submissive slid the shirt off his arms and held it a little awkwardly into his hands in an obvious question.

Aziraphale snapped out of his daze with a fresh wave of shame. He should’ve known better than losing himself that way when his Submissive needed him the most.

“You can fold that over the chair, my dear,” he instructed, “together with the rest of your clothes.”

Crowley obeyed without a word. He turned to place his shirt over the chair, and Aziraphale admired the subtle play of muscles under his skin, the lean shape of his back. Crowley had small, dusky nipples, a bony chest, a flat stomach, and a slim, soft belly. He barely had to open Newton’s trousers to shimmy out of them, once he’d unbuckled the belt. The pants followed suit, revealing his sinewy thighs and the long, lovely shape of his cock. It hung completely flaccid between his legs, which was a little disappointing to Aziraphale, who could feel himself twitching and getting hard at the sight. But then again, Crowley looked way too tense and anxious to be looking forward to a bit of rough play. Perhaps Aziraphale ought to specify what he had in mind. They would also need to have a quite in-depth talk about what Crowley wanted from their sexual arrangement, what he liked and what he didn’t, but Aziraphale didn’t think that was necessary for what he had in mind for the evening. Some warning, however, was definitely in order.

“Lie on the bed,” he ordered, as soon as Crowley’s clothes were tidily draped over the back of the chair. “On your belly.”

Once again, Crowley obeyed without a word. It was a strange kind of silence, from someone who hadn’t been particularly shy with his words so far. Aziraphale took his time to head to the en-suite bathroom and wash his hands thoroughly. He didn’t want to have to stop and leave the bed, if things looked promising, and the lube was stashed in the top drawer of his night table, well within reach.

Crowley was lying on the bed in the same position in which Aziraphale had left him, when he stepped back into the room. He still looked ghastly pale, and as Aziraphale joined him onto the bed, he realised that Crowley was struggling to keep himself from shivering.

Aziraphale frowned. He hoped that was from the cold, because the very last thing he wanted was a terrified Submissive. That would be a disaster for the both of them.

He placed a hand on the middle of Crowley’s back, and Crowley almost jumped out of his skin.

Aziraphale’s frown deepened.

“I’m going to hit you on your arse and your thighs, and you’re going to count each blow. I’ll stop when you reach twenty-five. I’m going to use only my hand.” He tilted his head a little, deep in thought. “We haven’t talked about safewords yet, so if you tell me to stop, I’ll stop. As simple as that. All right?”

Crowley’s face was buried so deep into the cushion that Aziraphale barely heard his reply.

“’s fine. Get on with it.”

Aziraphale scowled at Crowley’s stiff shoulders. He disliked how that was going, but he wasn’t sure there was much he could do right then and there. He hoped they would reach a better standing, in time, but they had a situation that needed to be dealt with, and he couldn’t delay punishment indefinitely. It’d do more bad than good.

He stroked Crowley’s back a few times, trying to soothe him enough to release his clenched muscles, but he wasn’t particularly successful. Crowley felt just as good as he looked, however, and Aziraphale luxuriated for a long moment in the feeling of his silky skin under his palm. He could’ve petted him like a reluctant cat for the rest of his days.

“I’m going to start, now,” he declared, when he managed to bring himself to leave Crowley’s sinfully enticing flesh. It was a little worrying how utterly bewitched he was by Crowley’s presence, how unwilling he was to let him go. He could only just resist the siren song of his naked back, and he was barely keeping himself from palming the round swells of his arse and parting the cheeks to thumb at his hole, instead of getting on with his punishment. Not that slapping that lovely flesh, marking it up and making it red and puffy and obscenely sensitive under his palm was some sort of hardship, of course. There was just so much choice, and Aziraphale had always been greedy.

Crowley grunted something that could pass for an agreement, and Aziraphale decided that he could throw in some harmless exploration with his aftercare, if Crowley seemed receptive to it. Perhaps even toy with him a little, rub at the sensitive skin of his hole and perineum as he pulled at his cock, making him come all over his bed as a reward for taking his punishment so well.

Food for thoughts, indeed.

The first slap crackled like thunder in the room, as his palm connected with the firm flesh of Crowley’s arse. Crowley grunted a “one” into the pillow, muffled but clear, and Aziraphale took a moment to admire the blood rushing to the surface of his exquisite skin before landing another blow, this time on the other cheek.

“Two.”

Aziraphale licked his lips. He was hard and twitching and agonizingly sensitive in his own pants, but he resolutely ignored it. Crowley had gone through so much, he needed his full attention. Aziraphale could wait a few days to get his satisfaction, if that was what was required of him. Crowley’s needs were paramount.

Another slap landed on the back of Crowley’s thighs, right under the swell of his arse, and Aziraphale realised that he’d been so caught up in the entire thing that he’d forgotten to take off his own waistcoat, or to roll up his sleeves. He should’ve known better, but Crowley had so thoroughly distracted him that he’d been able to think of nothing else but put his hands on him. Now he was going to end the evening soaked in sweat. Well, he had it coming. He’d think things through next time.

The thought of a next time put a bounce into his swing as he landed another blow on Crowley’s reddening cheeks.

“Four!”

The next two blows landed in short sequence on Crowley’s thighs, making him grunt and stiffen on the bed. There was a decisive lack of squirming going on, but perhaps Crowley just needed a little more to get hot and bothered. Aziraphale hit the firm cheeks of his arse again, making them bounce under his blows, and felt his palm starting to get warm with the effort. He could feel the strain in his muscles, too, down to his elbow and into his shoulder, and relished the sting.

He hit Crowley’s sweet, soft thighs again, and Crowley’s voice wavered as he grunted the number. Aziraphale looked up at where his soft red curls were spread on the cushion, over the gentle bow of his nape, and stilled upon realising that something didn’t quite add up. Crowley’s shoulders were tense, stiff like a board, red with exertion and covered in sweat. He was fisting the bedding with such violence that he was ripping it from its orderly folding, and while he’d stopped shivering, his back heaved with every breath as though he meant to work his ribcage to the exploding point. Hit by a terrible suspicion, Aziraphale gently parted Crowley’s thighs, and realised that the man was utterly flaccid.

The realisation caught up with him like a blow to the head.

Crowley wasn’t enjoying a punishment. He was enduring a beating.

Aziraphale recoiled from the horror of it. He felt himself soften in his pants as he backed away from the prone body lying on his bed, a hand pressed against his mouth. He was going to be sick. The idea that he’d been abusing someone in such a vile way was unendurable.

When the next blow failed to land, Crowley slowly pushed his head from the pillow, turning tiredly to look at him. His red hair was in disarray, his face was pale. Reddish blotches stained his cheeks, and it looked like he’d been biting his lips raw.

“Aziraphale?” he called, soft and subdued. It was the second time Aziraphale had heard him call his name. It felt terrible on Crowley’s tongue, like an accusation.

Aziraphale wiped his hand against his lips, trying to find the words. He’d miscalculated. Quite terribly so.

“I think,” he said, in a halting, rough voice, “I think we need to talk.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am humbled and overwhelmed by the appreciation that has been showered upon this story. I’d like to thank each and every one of you for the love and the wonderful comments you’ve been leaving, they’ve been much appreciated and have supported me plenty during the writing of this chapter. I’ve rewritten it twice, and with real life being quite unrelenting during the last few weeks (I did indeed start the new year with a bang), I couldn’t hope for a better support team.
> 
> That said, this chapter was supposed to be twice as long in my original draft. I had to cut it in half when I realised that I passed the bridge of 8k+ words and wasn’t even halfway through, so I’m sorry, no nasty bits (or CWs) this time. You’ll get your due with the next update <3
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter!

Fifteen minutes later they were back to the drawing-room, completely dressed and steeped into a tense silence. Aziraphale had directed them there, reasoning that the somewhat impersonal space would make for a better neutral ground than his bedroom. As Crowley spared a quick glance through his lowered lashes at the metal ring embedded into the floor, however, Aziraphale was forced to question the wisdom of his choice. Alas, they were already there, and Crowley had been dragged about quite enough for one day, so there was nothing to be done. The drawing-room would have to do.

Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. He’d chosen to sit on the padded armchair, hoping to look less threatening that way, but he hadn’t foreseen Crowley’s decision to stand by the window, as far away from him as feasible in the relatively cramped space. Another blatant proof of Aziraphale’s short-sightedness, if there was the need for one. He should’ve imagined that Crowley, so thoroughly off-balance, would choose a stance that would look as imposing and in-control as possible. It didn’t bode well for the state of their relationship, such as it was, and Aziraphale’s heart broke a little at the thought that he was the one to blame.

It was a sinking feeling, the awareness that his ill-conceived decision had brought them back there. He’d been so sure that what he was doing was for the best, that he was building the right foundations for their partnership, that he’d never spared a thought about actually asking Crowley what he wanted. He’d been so blind. He’d thought that his coming back had meant a willingness to at least consider a rapport of some kind between the two of them, even if Crowley deemed him nothing better than the lesser of two evils. He’d thought Crowley would want to try, at the very least, to see if they were compatible, if they could work together. He’d thought Crowley could actually want _him_.

What a fool he’d been.

And off he’d gone, imposing his dominance upon an unwilling partner, forcing him into something he didn’t want. Aziraphale had even _enjoyed_ it. That was the worst part, perhaps–the memory of his own pleasure, carved like a scarlet letter upon the forefront of his mind. He’d administered a sound beating to a cornered man who had no other choice but taking it, and he’d been hard the entire time.

The shame, the horror of it was unbearable. Aziraphale could feel it rise into his guts, like a solid wave of nausea, threatening to choke him.

Even the way he’d handled that terrible revelation had been nothing short of disgraceful. He’d recoiled from Crowley, physically, as though Crowley himself had been the source of his revulsion, then ordered him to get dressed and join him downstairs. No aftercare, no looking after Crowley’s physical and mental well-being. He should’ve stayed in charge, taken them both through the rough patch. He should’ve behaved like a Dominant, instead of pushing Crowley away, horrified by the mere prospect of laying hands on him again. But he had no clue how to behave, no idea whether his touch, any touch, would be welcomed, whether taking care of Crowley after beating him like a savage would help him or simply bring him even more distress.

Aziraphale was floundering. His training hadn’t covered subjects such as the delicate handling of a Submissive who had been very obviously mistreated by his previous Dominants, because the Council took the view that no Dominant could ever wilfully or unwittingly harm a Submissive. The closest thing he got were pretty hazy instructions on how to deal with difficult, resentful Submissives, with whom a steady hand, according to the most popular opinion, would be best suited.

Aziraphale didn’t think that what Crowley needed was to be beaten into compliance. Pity that he didn’t have much else to go on with.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. He didn’t believe Gabriel was right about Crowley needing a more forceful Dominant to come to peace with his nature, but he did think that Crowley would probably benefit from a more experienced one. Aziraphale felt distressingly unprepared and ill-equipped for the task. Refusing a partnership for so long had meant that every single one of his past encounters had been with practised, uncomplicated Submissives, hand-picked especially for him and perfectly matched to his needs and preferences so that very little was actually required of him. He’d never found himself in the situation of actually having to care for one of them, or be responsible for their well-being for longer than one night, and Aziraphale was quite belatedly realising that the two things could not have possibly been more different. The idea that a wrong decision could harm Crowley was weighing like lead over his shoulders.

It was even worse than he’d thought it would be. The responsibility was staggering.

Aziraphale felt himself shrinking from it. It wasn’t just the hard work, the painstaking care necessary to weave every single act and word and touch together to create something as delicate and beautiful as a tapestry. It was the paralysing terror of making a wrong turn, and having to deal with the inevitable fallout. It was the sickening feeling of knowing that he’d caused harm to another human being, even though he hadn’t meant to, and even worse, of having caused harm to someone who had given him his _trust_.

It was too much. And yet, he had no choice. He couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ send Crowley away, as though Crowley had been the one at fault, instead of the weak, substandard Dom he’d been given to. Aziraphale could deal with the other Dominants sneering at him for being incapable of handling the one Submissive he’d ever had in his care, but he’d never allow anyone to place the blame on Crowley. And Aziraphale knew that that was what it was going to pass, if he turned Crowley away. Aziraphale would be laughed at for being too weak-willed to deal with a difficult Submissive, but Crowley would always be the inferior stock who couldn’t be successfully paired. He’d get lost in the system, dumped from one Dom to the next until he reached the bottom of the pile, those Dominants who had no Submissive because they’d proven unfit to handle one. The thought of Crowley in the hands of someone like that sickened him.

No, whatever Aziraphale’s failures were, Crowley should not have to be the one who paid for them. Aziraphale could do that much for him. And it befell him and him alone to repair the damage he’d done, unwittingly or not.

The soft lighting of the drawing-room gave a quiet, private quality to the silence. It was dark outside, the only source of light coming from the wrought-iron streetlamps lining the garden path and the few shaded lamps mounted upon the walls. Crowley’s angular edges seemed full of shadows, and even the shine of his copper hair was somewhat muted. He was still staring out of the windows, arms crossed over his chest. He looked cold and dignified and a little feral, like a caged cat. Aziraphale wondered whether a time would ever come when Crowley’s beauty wouldn’t strike him like a blow, heavy and painful and visceral.

He took a deep breath. The noise seemed to startle Crowley somewhat, since Aziraphale was treated with a sharp glance from the corner of his eye.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, as gently as he could.

That seemed enough to dislodge Crowley from his stiff stance. He uncrossed his arms, turning towards Aziraphale with a confused look on his face.

“For what?”

“For making the wrong assumption.”

Crowley’s frown deepened.

“I don’t understand.”

Aziraphale smiled at him, a small thing, full of self-reproach.

“I thought you wanted to be my Submissive. It never occurred to me that you might assume that it would be the only option at your disposal, if you wanted to stay.”

Crowley blinked at him, a shimmer of gold in the shadows. He seemed to consider his words for a moment, carefully rolling them about in his head, before reaching the right conclusion.

The look he levelled Aziraphale was piercing.

“What are you saying, Aziraphale?” he asked, tense and wary. There was something impossibly enticing in hearing his name spoken by that smoky voice.

“You don’t have to be my Submissive to stay. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” Aziraphale shrugged. “As long as you can bring yourself to wear a collar, which I’m afraid is not negotiable for your own safety, and to pretend in front of Gabriel and the Council, you can stay here and do whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want,” Crowley repeated, slowly, as though he was tasting the words on his tongue. As though he was probing for the venomous bits. “And what would that be?”

“It’s your freedom, Crowley. It’s up to you to choose how you use it.” Aziraphale stood up, a little faster than he’d intended. His heart squeezed painfully in his chest when he saw Crowley shrink at the movement, although the man quickly corrected himself and forced his shaking limbs to keep their ground. If there had been any more room in Aziraphale’s heart left for remorse, it’d be filled to burst by now. “You can think about it. Take your time. Let me know when you’re ready.”

“Is that it?” Crowley countered, the fight slowly returning to his lithe form. “I can just, what, stay here and waste my time away?”

“I’d prefer for you to find an occupation, of course, since I do not approve of idle hands, but I won’t require any service of any kind from you, if that’s what you’re thinking. You are also always free to leave, if you choose...” Aziraphale hesitated for a moment, unsure whether he wanted to finish that sentence and expose himself thus, but if Crowley could talk to him about his insecurities, so could he about his wishes, “...but I’d like for you to stay.”

Crowley settled that unblinking stare of his on Aziraphale, considering him in silence.

“You’d like for me to stay,” he repeated, slowly and clearly, “but not as your Submissive, just as some sort of guest in your household, free to come and go as I please. Is that about right?”

Aziraphale nodded.

“That’s the gist of it, yes.”

“Why?”

It seemed to be Crowley’s favourite question, amongst many others. He had quite an inquisitive nature, and while Aziraphale had an inkling that most Dominants would consider that an unnecessarily challenging attitude, Aziraphale found himself rather charmed by it.

“Because I’d loathe to lose you into the system, and I think you could be happy here, if you just gave us a chance.”

“Happy.” Crowley tilted his head. “With you.” He made it sound like an accusation.

Aziraphale dipped his head, shame lapping once again at his conscience.

“I won’t ask you to trust me, but please, believe me when I say that I’d never knowingly abuse my position. I would like for you to find a measure of peace, here.”

Crowley’s face did something then, twisted itself in a grimace so full of humiliated anger that Aziraphale was taken aback.

“You pity me,” he hissed. “Well, I don’t need your pity, and I don’t need your charity. I said that I wanted to stay here as your Submissive, and I’m not going to back off from a deal just because it’s a tough one.”

Aziraphale arched a brow.

“A partnership is not a payoff of some sort. You either wish for my dominance, or you don’t. I’m not such a poor excuse for a Dom that I need your submission as payment for room and board.” He tried to keep it from his voice, but he was quite offended by such an implication. “If you feel the need to compensate me for your upkeep, there is never a shortage of work to be done in the house. You can ask Anathema, she’ll be delighted to put you to good use.”

Aziraphale went to the door and rang the bell. He glanced back from over his shoulder. Crowley was exactly where he’d left him, standing by the window, as tense as a bowstring. He looked a little lost, too, as though he’d been priming himself for a fight and now he didn’t quite know what to do with all that adrenaline pumping in his veins. Aziraphale could almost see the nervous energy sizzling underneath his skin, like a current, hurtling its way along his nervous system.

“I’m truly sorry for what happened, Crowley,” he said, a bit softer. “I’ll make sure it won’t happen again.”

Crowley seemed to have nothing to say to that. Which was just as well, since a delicate knocking announced Anathema’s arrival.

Aziraphale opened the door himself, and smiled at Anathema’s surprised face. She schooled it back into a blank, polite expression soon enough, but there was still a glint of keen interest in her big dark eyes. They had retired to Aziraphale’s bedroom a good hour before, after all. She was trying to keep it from showing, but she was clearly wondering what they’d been up to, being out and about so late, instead of preoccupied with the obvious.

“Have you called for me, Master Aziraphale?” she asked, curiosity spilling unheeded into her careful voice.

“Yes, my dear,” Aziraphale answered, “and thank you for coming so quickly. I know it’s quite late, but Crowley will be in need of a room to stay, and I was wondering whether you could perhaps spruce up a little one of those guest rooms you always keep in perfect condition. You can? Oh, that’s wonderful. I knew I could count on you.”

Aziraphale pretended not to see the look Anathema threw behind him, where he supposed Crowley was standing. It was a sharp, shrewd stare, as though Anathema was taking Crowley’s measures in the face of such brand new development.

“Anything else, Master Aziraphale?”

“Could you please talk to Newton as well, my dear? I would like for him to drive Crowley to town, tomorrow. He’ll need some clothes, and we can’t keep pestering poor Newton to give us the shirt off his back, can we? Not to mention Mr. Shadwell, who will soon be coming clamouring for his boots. Madame Tracy won’t be able to hold him back indefinitely, I’m afraid.”

There was a hint of humour in Anathema’s eyes, as she bowed her head respectfully.

“I think that would be wise, Master Aziraphale.” Anathema paused, as if something had occurred to her just then. “You’ll be joining them, of course?”

Aziraphale hesitated. He was sending his new Submissive into town, _alone_ , and every single instinct he possessed was _screaming_ against such a foolish decision. It was just a knee-jerk sort of reaction, Aziraphale was aware, the kind of reaction that would be dulled in time, as his rapport with his Submissive grew into a trusting, balanced relationship. But Crowley wasn’t his Submissive, and there was nothing to grow there. Crowley didn’t belong to him, and Aziraphale had already mistreated him enough for the brief period he had. His instincts had no saying in this, however loud they were growling, buried deep inside the marrow of his bones.

“No, I won’t.”

He smiled at Anathema’s bewildered look, and as her gaze shifted to Crowley, Aziraphale turned to him as well. He was a little taken aback to realise how close Crowley was standing, almost looming over them, slender frame working to his advantage to make him look taller than he actually was. His amber eyes were fixed steadily on Aziraphale, wary and a little uncertain, as though he was speaking in tongues.

Aziraphale smiled up at him–the soft smile he’d have used to ingratiate himself to a skittish animal.

“You’ll be all right on your own, won’t you?”

Crowley searched his face for a while longer, as though looking for a trap, before nodding slowly.

“Yes.”

“Very well.” A pause, as Aziraphale considered how to phrase the next bit. Eventually, he decided to simply go for it. He didn’t know any gentler way to put it, and he’d already established that Crowley appreciated direct more than coddling. “The only thing left to consider, now, is the collar.”

Crowley stiffened a little at that, but said nothing.

“We still have the one he came in with,” Anathema offered, but Aziraphale shook his head.

“We told Gabriel we were getting a new one, and that’s what he’ll be expecting to see next time.” Aziraphale took in Crowley’s darkening features, the sharpness of his clenched jaw, and added: “Beside, I don’t think any reminder from the Council would be much appreciated. Am I wrong?”

It took Crowley a while to reply, and Aziraphale realised that he was weighing his answer, how the truth could be twisted against him. Aziraphale _ached_ to reach for him, to show him the kind of gentleness he was entitled to, to tell him how sorry he was with a touch, but he knew he had no right, and worse–how loathed his touch would be. So he kept his hands to himself, and waited patiently for Crowley’s answer.

“No,” he said eventually, slowly and almost unwillingly, “you aren’t.”

Aziraphale nodded.

“I thought as much. I’ll need to make arrangements. I’ll let you know how things are coming along. Meanwhile, you get your clothes sorted. Buy everything you need. Newton will know how to deal with the payment. You can also ask him for directions, since I presume you don’t know the town well.” Aziraphale chuckled. “Newton is not exactly an authority on the latest fashion trends, though, so feel free to explore a little if you’d like.”

Aziraphale sobered up, as he realised that Crowley was staring at him with an almost bewildered look.

“You want me to choose my own clothes?”

Aziraphale blinked. His mind quickly supplied him with a picture of himself standing there, selecting Crowley’s garments, helping him into them in one of the big changing rooms of his favourite shop. He imagined running his hands over Crowley’s chest, smoothing down the fine cotton of a white shirt over his deceptively lean frame, feeling the flesh underneath, the rise of his ribcage at every breath. Brushing his bobbing Adam’s apple as he fixed a tie around his neck. Gently sorting out that lovely cock of his in a pair of formal trousers, asking him to which side it felt more comfortable to dress.

He had to look away. His skin was prickling with heat at the thought, his cock was twitching into his pants, and Crowley was _not his Submissive_. How could he even think those terrible things, after what had happened not one hour before? And he considered himself kind.

“Is that a problem?” he asked, trying to wrangle his mind into a seemlier train of thought. He was being despicable.

Crowley seemed to think it over for a while, then shook his head slowly.

“No. It’s... it’s fine.”

It was hard to say if he was pleased or not by that development. He seemed mostly bewildered. But any other option would lead them to a path that Aziraphale didn’t think he could walk unscathed. It seemed that the more he was in Crowley’s presence, the more he wanted the man, like some sort of gravitational pull. It was a worrying thought, but one for another day.

“I think that’s sorted, then. It’s been a long day, full of excitement, and I think we’d do well to leave everything else for tomorrow.” He turned to Anathema. “I’m going to retire now, but I’ll leave Crowley in your capable hands. I think you two will have much to discuss.”

Anathema bowed her head, eyes shooting to Crowley. Aziraphale looked at him as well, a frown wrinkling his forehead.

“I’m sorry to ask this of you,” he said, deliberately slowly, “but I think it’d be best for you to wear the Council’s collar, when you head to town.”

Crowley’s nostrils flared at the suggestion, lips drawing into a fine line. Aziraphale was indeed loathing to ask that of him, but he couldn’t have tongues wagging about his new Submissive being seen in town without his Dominant, without restraints, and without even a collar. It’d be already enough of a gossip as it was. The last thing Aziraphale wanted was to give the Council more reasons to meddle into his (and Crowley’s) private affairs.

“All right.”

“I know I’m asking much of you, and you can take it off as soon as you’re back home. I wouldn’t dream of imposing it on you for long-”

“I said all right,” Crowley exploded, interrupting him quite rudely, and even succeeding in drawing Anathema’s fierce glare to himself. “Sure, I’ll do it. What else do you want?”

Aziraphale scowled, taken aback and not a little stung by the tone. However, Crowley’s reaction worked as a charm to shatter his fantasies about a complicit, untroubled Submissive simply enjoying his touch, and he guessed that was just as well.

“That’s about it, I suppose,” he said, trying and surely failing to hide how Crowley’s sharp answer had wounded him. “I wish you a good night.”

Crowley’s hard glare seemed to waver a little, but it didn’t soften.

“Good night, Aziraphale,” he said, eventually.

Aziraphale nodded slightly at him, and then headed for the stairs. He didn’t look back once. He didn’t want to know what he’d see in Anathema’s and Crowley’s eyes, if he did.

* * *

As Aziraphale walked into the small dining room, the morning after, he found no trace of Crowley. Only one place had been prepared at the long table, and no one was in sight.

Aziraphale rang the bell and took a seat. A few moments later, there was a gentle knocking at the door.

“Come.”

It was Anathema. She bowed her head respectfully in a soft waterfall of brown hair.

“Good morning, Master Aziraphale. I’ll have your breakfast ready at once.”

Aziraphale reached for the paper, lying on the table next to his plate.

“Thank you, my dear.”

Anathema bowed her head again and closed the door behind her.

Aziraphale tried to keep himself busy with the paper as he waited, but he couldn’t concentrate. It’d been a hellish night. His pillow had smelt wrong, and he’d realised belatedly that the alien scent he couldn’t seem to get out of his head was Crowley’s. Crowley had been lying there, face buried deep in the soft down and softer linen, and Aziraphale had been getting hard all over again as Crowley’s distinctive scent surrounded him, burrowing through his skin directly into his blood. He’d refused to acknowledge it, burning shame crashing over him like a wave at his drawing pleasure from something that was bordering on abuse, and he’d switched to the other side of the bed. But Crowley’s scent had seemed to cling to him like a bloodstain, impossible to wash away, impossible to ignore, gripping his heart tight into its fist and crushing it until the red pulp squashed between the clenched fingers. Aziraphale had resolutely refused to do something about it, whether that was seeking Crowley out, as his screeching instincts had been insisting for him to do at the beginning of that wretched night, or stroking the tension away himself, as his battered body had offered as an olive branch by the end, and spent hour upon hour tossing and turning in his blasted sheets and sleeping fitfully, mind overtaken by sensuous, violent dreams he couldn’t remember upon waking up.

Aziraphale sighed. He’d have to ask Anathema to change his sheets, when she was back, and wouldn’t _that_ be a lovely conversation to have.

The smell of cooked breakfast did help to settle his nerves a little. Aziraphale folded the paper carefully and thanked Anathema kindly, as he allowed himself to relish the impending pleasure of delicious food. Even that, however, was not enough to chase Crowley out of his mind. He wanted to ask Anathema about him, but he wasn’t sure he ought to. He’d never brought any of his dalliances home, and that was the first time he had to deal with his staff being so directly involved in his private life. It was a bit unsettling. And the fact that Crowley wasn’t really his Submissive made everything even more complicated.

Eventually, Anathema solved his problem for him.

“Newt has taken Master Crowley to town,” she provided, without being asked. “They’ve left quite early, and didn’t say when they’d be back. I thought you might want to know.”

He did. And Anathema was the best head of staff he could wish for.

“Thank you, Anathema.” A pause, and then: “Would you mind freshening my room up a bit, please?”

Aziraphale had half-expected to see something on her face at the request, but Anathema was too well-trained to let something like that slip.

“Of course, Master Aziraphale,” she simply answered, before disappearing.

Aziraphale sighed. He hadn’t realised exactly what it’d mean to have a Submissive under his roof, but he had an inkling that he’d been barely scratching the surface, and the real fun still had to come.

What a cheerful thought.

* * *

The day seemed to roll by with an unusual, slightly alarming slowness. Aziraphale had never experienced the like, and didn’t really fancy this new development. He was the sort that would bury himself so deeply into his work that his staff had to drag him out at lunch and supper to make sure he had something into his belly (though he did eat quite enthusiastically when the food was brought to the table), and he didn’t think he’d looked at the clock so often in his entire _life_. But the hours seemed to pass at a sluggish pace, and even the new illuminated manuscript he’d purchased not one week before failed to hold his attention for long.

The unsettling reality was that he couldn’t keep his mind off Crowley. There was a deep-seated, jittery part of himself that couldn’t stop thinking about Crowley being off alone, away from him, and no matter how much he tried to divert his attention from that particular train of thought–he kept worrying at it like a dog with a bone, stubborn and relentless, all chomping jaws and sharp fangs.

He called his personal collar-maker around mid-morning, hoping it would take his mind off things, but he quickly realised his mistake as he set up a meeting for the day after. Far from being diverted, his mind clung to the picture of Crowley wearing his collar like a leech, refusing to let go. Aziraphale tried to reason with himself, calling his unruly mind’s attention to the fact that there was nothing to be excited about, he’d already seen Crowley with a collar. That not only brought to mind a lovely image of Crowley kneeling naked and bound on the floor of his drawing-room, it also served as stark reminder that it wouldn’t be some anonymous piece of leather given by the Council gracing Crowley’s neck, this time; it would be _Aziraphale’s_ collar. And that wasn’t a thought he was ready to have.

The rest of the day passed just as unproductively, much to Aziraphale’s chagrin, and without a breath from Crowley. Aziraphale had his lunch alone, determined to focus on the bloody paper instead of staring blankly at the pages and wondering where Crowley was, and he partly succeeded. He didn’t go out much and didn’t own one single telly in his entire estate, so the paper was pretty much the only way he had to keep in touch with the rest of the world. He suspected that his staff had a television set stashed away in their quarters, but he wasn’t going to ask. To each their own.

By supper time, Aziraphale was quite in a mood. He disliked both the way his mind was stuck on Crowley and the fact that he hadn’t heard a word from him through the entire day, and he resolved to ask Anathema about him over dinner. It was humiliating, having to turn to his household to know what his own Submissive had been up to, and though Crowley wasn’t exactly that, that was how his household would perceive him. There was no way around it. It was an unpleasant situation under every single point of view for everyone involved.

Having reached this decision, it wasn’t as difficult as he’d thought to approach the subject with Anathema. She was placing a steaming plate of hot soup in front of him when Aziraphale, after thanking her politely, dropped the question with as much unbothered grace as he could muster.

“Is Crowley back from his day in town, my dear?” he asked, feigning a minimum amount of interest.

Anathema’s face remained politely blank, but Aziraphale could spy a hint of a smile on her full lips. He pretended not to have noticed the slip, provided that had been a slip at all.

“Yes, he and Newt have been home for about one hour,” she answered, hesitating a moment before adding: “Master Crowley had an early supper with us, then went to his room to sort out his stuff. Would you like me to fetch him for you?”

“Oh, no, dear, no need for it,” Aziraphale rushed to decline. The last thing he wanted was to give Crowley the impression that he was hovering over his every move. The man had already difficulties believing him as it was. But he couldn’t simply leave it at that. He _couldn’t_. “Did everything work out all right? Any problems?”

“Not that I know of,” Anathema answered. “Aside from Newt being utterly _terrified_ of him.”

She seemed to find the concept amusing, but it made Aziraphale frown.

“Has something happened?” he sternly asked. He was going to give Crowley as much freedom as he was able to, but he would _not_ tolerate his staff being mistreated. If that was the case, he’d put an end to that behaviour at once.

Anathema shook her head.

“I don’t think Master Crowley said to Newt anything he wouldn’t say to _me_ ,” she answered, correctly implying that Crowley and everyone else would do well to be very careful how they were going to talk to her. “He spoke very little, and politely enough, Newt said. I think he just finds him scary, for some reason.”

“But you don’t,” Aziraphale replied, starting to share her amusement. It _was_ true that Newton found his own shadow intimidating. He was scared out of his wits of Mr. Shadwell and utterly in awe of Anathema.

The woman scoffed at the implication that she could find _anyone_ scarier than herself. It would’ve been an unthinkable breach of protocol in another household, but Aziraphale found it refreshingly honest.

“Of course not. He looks like he wouldn’t weigh a hundred and fifty pounds wet, and all the glaring in the world won’t help him much on the matter. He’s like one of those very small dogs that keep barking about hoping that anyone at all may find them threatening.”

Aziraphale burst into a belly laugh at that unflattering comparison. There was some indignation rumouring somewhere deep inside him at his Submissive being talked about as such (Crowley wasn’t his Submissive, why couldn’t his stubborn mind understand that), but he had to admit that Anathema had a point.

His laugh had Anathema openly smirking at him, and it took Aziraphale some time to sober up. Eventually, he was brought back to a less pleasant state of mind by the weight of more pressing concerns. Namely, that he had an appointment with his collar-maker the day after, and that he didn’t seem to be able to get a hold on Crowley long enough to inform him about it. It rankled Aziraphale, having to rely on Anathema to pass the message, but there was no way around it. There was a part of him that was thoroughly shamed by that lack of control over his own household, but there was nothing to be done about it–not if he didn’t want to destroy that fragile semblance of trust he was trying to build with Crowley.

“Just one thing before you go. I’ve made an appointment with Mr. Young for tomorrow,” he informed Anathema, trying to keep his tone of voice light enough. “Would you be a dear and tell Crowley, please? He’ll be required in the drawing-room by three o’clock.”

His attempts had clearly been for naught, since Anathema’s gaze turned piercing all of a sudden. Aziraphale did his best to bear it with what he hoped was a placid look painted upon his face.

“At once, Master Aziraphale,” she answered eventually. She looked like she’d wanted to say something else, but she’d changed her mind just one second before the words had tumbled from her tongue.

Aziraphale was relieved. Whatever she was thinking, he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it.

“Thank you, my dear.”

Anathema bowed her head silently, leaving him to his supper.

* * *

The morning after saw him again sitting alone in his small dining room, before a full plate of cooked breakfast food. His night had been slightly better than the one before, but Aziraphale couldn’t get rid of the feeling that he could still make out the scent of Crowley’s skin on his sheets, even if they were freshly laundered and they smelt of lavender. Crowley had been in his room for less than half an hour, and yet it felt like his essence had saturated the very floor and walls and it’d penetrated into his mattress and pillows, down to every feather and cotton fibre. Aziraphale had dreamt of Crowley’s pale skin, of tracing the contours of his back with his fingertips, following each bump of his spine. He’d dreamt of pushing Crowley’s legs apart and palming the sinewy flesh of his inner thighs, slipping his thumbs in the creases where they met the sweet swell of Crowley’s arse.

It was ridiculous. Aziraphale was well into his forties, for crying out loud, a trained Dominant who was supposed to have a firmer handle than that on his own basic needs. If his control was truly that tattered, after only a few nights, he’d need to organise a meeting with a Companion as soon as possible. Which would be a bit tricky, now that he was in a sanctioned partnership, but not impossible. Dominants fooling around with Submissives who were not their own were a pretty rare occurrence, and a heavily frowned-upon one at that, but they weren’t unheard of. Gabriel and the Council would be mighty displeased if they ever caught wind of such indiscretion, but Aziraphale knew a few places that would be happy to keep quiet for a little extra on the side.

It wasn’t difficult to understand why Crowley wouldn’t want him around for a while. Even Aziraphale, in his abysmal ignorance, could figure that out. And yet, seeing him again hit him like a blow in the guts.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what he’d expected–perhaps that Crowley wouldn’t be there in time, forcing Aziraphale to go through the mortifying ordeal of having to fetch him himself, or even worse, asking Anathema to do that for him. But as Aziraphale stepped into the drawing-room not five minutes before the appointed time, he found Crowley already there, sprawled on the couch and busy observing with a pensive gaze the garden outside.

It was the first time Aziraphale had seen him in anything that wasn’t bare skin or Newton’s baggy clothes, and the sight was heart-stopping. Because if Crowley had never exactly screamed moderation, he couldn’t have chosen clothes like that without knowing how he looked like in them, how the sight of skin-tight black jeans that underlined his long legs or a black waistcoat that emphasized his slender waist would stick like needles into Aziraphale’s skin.

Aziraphale swallowed, stepping carefully closer. Crowley seemed lost in his thoughts, but Aziraphale had no doubt that he knew he was there.

“Your garden’s a bit messy,” Crowley commented in the strained silence, like an afterthought. He had his thighs spread almost obscenely, one arm slung across the back of the couch and the other propped onto the armrest, a finger rubbing pensively against his lips.

Aziraphale huffed, looking away. He couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ be distracted like that. No matter how enticing Crowley was.

“Yes, I _know_ ,” he grumbled, without bothering to hide his genuine annoyance. “Why is everybody so concerned with the state of my garden, all of a sudden?”

Crowley threw him a side look, a ghost of a smile on his lips, and didn’t answer. Not that he’d have the time anyway, since Mr. Young was a meticulously precise man, and he was always on time. Aziraphale was almost startled by the knock on the door that preceded his entrance.

Crowley’s entire stance seemed to change when the stranger stepped through the door. He rose to his feet, drawing up to his full size and squaring his shoulders, but slipping his hands into the pockets of his pants. It was a strange thing to witness. It was almost as though Crowley was priming himself for a fight, but trying at the same time to seem casual about it. If that was the case, he wasn’t getting particularly good results.

The collar-maker greeted them both politely, and set his leather briefcase on the table. Aziraphale exchanged the necessary pleasantries with the man, though it wasn’t a hardship at all. He liked Mr. Young, how professional he was. Although he had never owned a Submissive, Aziraphale had commissioned a few collars throughout the years, usually as a thank-you gift for a particularly wonderful night, and once, quite unforgettably, as Michael’s wedding present. Mr. Young had never questioned the absence of a Submissive in Aziraphale’s household, never looked fazed in the slightest. As someone who had his own choices regularly evaluated and found lacking, Aziraphale had the utmost respect for people that didn’t seem to have any opinion in particular about anything that wasn’t their own business.

Crowley, however, had seemed to take an instinctive dislike to the collar-maker. Every time Aziraphale turned to look at him, he was staring the man down with an impressive frown, amber eyes hard and unforgiving. It was admittedly a bit startling, since Crowley, while not being particularly friendly with anyone, had never shown such blatant hostility before, as far as Aziraphale knew–save for Aziraphale himself, of course. Well, at least now he was in good company. It was starting to get a bit lonely, on the side of Crowley’s cold shoulder. Not that Aziraphale could blame him in the slightest, but still.

“Would you like to start, then?” Mr. Young eventually asked, after a good fifteen minutes of friendly chatter.

Aziraphale threw a look at Crowley. His usually pale face had turned into a worrying shade of chalky white, making his amber eyes look like embers burning in the snow. The need to reach out and undo the little bun on the back of his head, so that Aziraphale could weave his fingers through the wavy mass of copper hair and soothe at least some of his nerves, seized his throat like a fist. He looked away, nodding his assent at the collar-maker.

Mr. Young took a few design books from his briefcase. He showed them to Aziraphale, who shook his head.

“I’m not the one who’ll be needing your services today, Mr. Young,” he said. “Crowley, come here and choose what you like.”

That shocked Crowley out of his frayed stillness. He seemed taken aback, staring for a moment at Aziraphale as though he hadn’t quite understood what he’d meant.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale prompted him gently. The collar-maker’s face didn’t betray anything of what he thought of that odd pause, but Aziraphale didn’t think that Crowley would be happy with his blunder, and the longer it lasted, the harder it would be for him to deal with it later.

Calling his name seemed enough to shake him out of his trance-like state. Crowley threw a quick, wary look at him, before approaching the collar-maker as though he was going to walk into a badly concealed trap. He didn’t make a move to take the portfolios, and stood barely close enough to be able to peer at them from above Mr. Young’s shoulder.

“Do you have any preference for the material?” the collar-maker asked, splaying a hand over the neat pile of leather-bound books. “We have quite a range for you to choose from, though most people go for leather. It’s the traditional choice; it’s comfortable, sturdy, elegant and durable. But there are other options we could consider, if you feel particularly adventurous.”

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley, who swallowed visibly.

“Leather’s good,” Crowley agreed, voice noticeably lower than usual. He looked tense again, the same strain to his shoulders that had betrayed his nerves during Gabriel’s short visits. He wasn’t just uncomfortable–he was trying to keep himself together, and the effort was trickling out like light through a rice-paper door.

Mr. Young took the thickest design book from the pile. It had a silver engraving on the front, a tortuous spiralling motif that looked stunning against the plush backdrop of the black leather.

“Which style would you prefer? We have anything from high-neck collars to almost-invisible ones.”

Aziraphale had no doubt about which sort Crowley would end up choosing. He was therefore caught completely off-guard by Crowley’s quiet yet determined answer.

“I’d like to see the standard-sized collars.”

Crowley’s head was bowed, his attention completely caught by the design book held by Mr. Young, and he missed the surprised frown Aziraphale threw at him. That was not what he’d been expecting.

The collar-maker brushed his fingers against the elegant placeholders sticking from the pages, as Crowley loomed over him. The same unruly side of Aziraphale that had been giving him grief during the past hours didn’t like for Crowley to stand so close to a stranger, didn’t like it one bit, but Aziraphale ruthlessly strangled it back into submission.

The collars that Mr. Young was showing Crowley were quite beautiful, and they would all look stunning on his bare neck. Heat sparked under Aziraphale’s skin at the thought, and he had to fight to keep himself in check. He wasn’t a teenager, hadn’t been for quite a long time, and had no intention of embarrassing himself with an erection in front of the blasted collar-maker.

“I want something comfortable,” Crowley was saying, heedless of whatever was going on inside Aziraphale’s head. “Nothing too big, but easy to spot. And it must be black.”

Crowley still looked a bit on edge, but being able to have a say in what was happening seemed to calm him down a little. It pleased Aziraphale to know that he was making at least some good decisions, as far as Crowley was involved. It was a novel sort of feeling.

Mr. Young ruffled through a few pages, before pointing at one model.

“I’d suggest this one,” he said. “It’s leather on the outside, suede on the inside. The buckles and the ring are all in stainless steel, and we can have Master Aziraphale’s family crest carved and silver-plated on both sides.”

A new wave of tingling hunger hit Aziraphale unaware, at the thought of Crowley wearing his seal. It was like being offered all of a sudden something he hadn’t known he’d wanted his entire life. It was sharp, and harsh, and bracing.

And Crowley looked like he was trying to swallow a handful of needles, his pale face struggling to keep some semblance of composure under the strain of his obvious, unbearable distaste. It pained Aziraphale to see him so uncomfortable, yet it stung to have another proof of how little Crowley welcomed anything even resembling Aziraphale’s dominance.

Aziraphale took a deep breath.

“That will not be necessary.”

Both Crowley and Mr. Young looked up at him, one with narrowed eyes, the other with a completely blank expression. Aziraphale was forced to admit that the collar-maker had a much firmer handle on his own emotional response than Crowley, as much as the Submissive seemed capable of keeping himself in check under pressure.

“Sir?” the collar-maker said.

Aziraphale tried his most affable smile.

“No need for something so elaborate, just yet. We’re still deciding what we like. Aren’t we, Crowley?”

Crowley was staring at him with an expression that Aziraphale couldn’t decipher at all.

“No crest, and no ring,” Crowley said, after a beat.

That declaration finally seemed to shake Mr. Young out of his perfectly contained blankness. He blinked at Crowley, clearly taken aback, before shifting his perplexed gaze back to Aziraphale.

“Sir?” he repeated.

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley. There was a challenge in that pale face, as obvious as the deep-seated conviction that Aziraphale would lose. Crowley was clearly expecting Aziraphale to balk at his own promise to let him live free on his property, when faced with the blatant reality that Crowley would refuse to be lashed. After what he’d probably gone through, it was far from surprising that Crowley would not allow anyone to lash him ever again­.

Although the picture was a rather fetching one, in the right situation, Aziraphale couldn’t care less. He had no interest in subjecting a Submissive to something they didn’t want, and there had been little in Aziraphale’s life as abhorrent as Crowley being unwillingly chained like an animal to the floor of his drawing-room.

“As he said,” Aziraphale placidly answered.

The collar-maker studied his face a moment longer, before finally nodding.

“Very well,” he declared, jotting down a few unreadable scribbles on his notebook, before closing the leather-bound portfolio with the utmost care. “Would that be all?”

Aziraphale clasped his hands behind his back, turning to Crowley. Whatever was left of that challenging spark had been thoroughly extinguished. Crowley looked lost in thought, holding himself rigidly as though he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Crowley?” he called softly. That seemed to drag the man back to the present, though begrudgingly, as if he’d been pulled there by the scruff of his neck.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Crowley confirmed. He didn’t seem to notice he’d been completely bypassed. He looked even paler than before, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure what to make of it.

If Mr. Young had noticed anything at all amiss, he didn’t let it show.

“In that case,” he said, slipping the design books into his briefcase, “I’ll have the collar shipped directly here by the end of next week.”

It wasn’t ideal, but Aziraphale doubted that Gabriel would be back before that.

“That’s wonderful,” he truthfully said, accompanying the man to the door. “Thank you very much, Mr. Young. I’ll be forever in your debt for rushing here at such short notice. I’ll make a transfer as soon as you send me the invoice, with a little extra for your invaluable service.”

“Thank you, Sir,” the collar-maker replied, as Anathema came out of nowhere with his coat, scarf and hat. “It’s always a pleasure to do business with you.”

Aziraphale shook his hand and left him in Anathema’s capable hands. He went back to the drawing-room, half-expecting Crowley to be already gone, but he was still there. He was standing rigidly by the window, arms crossed over his chest.

“Are we done?” he asked stiffly, as soon as Aziraphale was back.

Aziraphale tilted his head. He despaired he’d ever get used to the man’s lightning-quick mood swings, or at least faster at understanding what brought them on.

“Yes. Why, did you need something else? I could always call him back...”

“ _No_ ,” Crowley interrupted him, a little too quickly. He tried to sweep a hand through his hair, but was thwarted by the bun. He took off the elastic band with a huff that was almost a growl, letting his hair down and combing it with his fingers. Aziraphale ached to do that for him. He could feel the biting teeth of that impossible need render his skin.

“I just thought...” Crowley went on, after a beat, “I just thought he’d need to take my measurements, ‘s all.”

He’d said it in an almost distracted tone, as though that was barely more than an afterthought, and Aziraphale was fooled for a moment.

“Why?” he asked, with a frown. He could force himself to endure a lot of things about Crowley and their botched partnership, but he didn’t think he could bear the sight of anyone else putting their hands on him. Not so soon, not after the previous night, and especially not when he himself could not. “Your file had all your measurements, why would he ever need...”

Aziraphale stopped. Crowley was giving him a side look from the corner of his eye, his mouth pulled into a grimace. Realisation hit him like a freight train.

“Was that something your other Dominants made you do?” he asked, slowly and deliberately. There was an abyss of possibilities spreading under his feet, each one of them more terrible than the one before. And Aziraphale was standing in the middle of it, he and his own failed attempt at discipline. How stupid he’d been.

Crowley shrugged, looking away.

“Not all. ‘s not important.” Aziraphale was still trying to come up with something intelligent to say, when Crowley added in a testy, harsh voice: “We done?”

Aziraphale realised that Crowley hadn’t meant to say anything at all, that he’d slipped, and that he hated the thought of having slipped. Aziraphale pondered about refusing to let this conversation end, about questioning further, demanding to be told the extent of the damage, because how could he avoid hurting Crowley without knowing? But probing would’ve been a violation in itself.

Aziraphale remembered a wintry day in his childhood, a long time before, wandering through the snow-sprinkled grounds of his parents’ estate and seeing a frozen lake for the first time. His nanny’s blatant horror at his attempt to step onto it had been forever sealed into his mind. It was a dangerous thing, he’d been told, to tread on ice. One wrong step, one treacherous fissure, and he’d sink in freezing waters.

Funny, how after so many years he’d ended up treading on ice anyway.

“Yes,” he said, slowly, carefully. Mindful of fissures. “We’re done.”

Crowley stared at him a moment longer, hard and sharp and unforgiving, then turned on his heels and left.

Aziraphale realised he’d remembered the freezing waters, but he’d forgotten all about the witching beauty of a wintry day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day I’ll manage to write something without shoving endless pining into it. One day.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. GUYS. You're amazing. I’ve never expected so much love. Thank you so much, your comments are the reason I manage to keep writing such endless chapters (I barged through the 9k threeshold this time!) at such unbelievable speed <3
> 
> I'm a bit nervous about this chapter, so I really hope you'll enjoy it. No particular CWs ahead.

Once again, there was only one place prepared in the small dining room, when Aziraphale stepped into it the morning after. The old oak table was long, built to fit the informal meals of a small family, and the solitary single set looked queerly lonely on the mostly empty surface. Aziraphale contemplated the sight in silence for a moment, before ringing the bell and taking a seat.

He was being ridiculous. Not only hadn’t he really expected Crowley to join him for breakfast any time soon, but he’d been sitting at that table for decades barely registering that there _was_ something beyond his plate, while delighting in the quiet and privacy of an empty room. He’d enjoyed the company offered by the social functions he was sporadically required to attend, when he was younger, but there was always something indescribably soothing in eating alone, without having to hold a conversation, keep up appearances, or fake a friendliness that only at times was actually genuine. There was indeed something to say about the lavish dinners and scrumptious food the Council offered at its quarterly events, but there were also expectations, and censures, and the pressure to follow every delicate step of that social game that had lost most of its appeal after Aziraphale had turned thirty without showing any sign of wishing to be paired off like every good Dominant would only be overjoyed to. By forty-five, the price for company had become simply too steep for him to pay to take enjoyment from it any longer, and Aziraphale had found himself more and more ensconced in a lonely life that at least allowed him to be himself without being constantly preoccupied with throwing the right aura of dominance around to compensate for his obvious flaws.

Until now, apparently.

Aziraphale sighed, long and deep, before reaching for the paper and resolutely pushing the issue aside, chalking it down to the wretched nights of fitful sleep he’d been suffering through since that unfortunate affair had started. He’d never been bothered about eating alone before, and he’d be damned if he started now.

Anathema’s gentle knocking came just in time.

“Come in,” Aziraphale called out.

Anathema opened the door, bowing her head in greeting.

“Good morning, Master Aziraphale. Shall I fetch your breakfast?”

“That would be lovely, my dear,” Aziraphale answered, holding the paper in front of his face, trying to focus on the words, but the ink seemed to swim in front of his eyes, the script to lose its meaning.

Aziraphale clenched his teeth. He had to ask. He _had_ to know.

“Wait,” he said at her retreating form, lowering the useless paper he couldn’t seem to be able to read. He kept trying to pull away, to give both himself and Crowley some breathing space, but there was something in his blood that simply wouldn’t let him go. Crowley had slithered into his skin and put roots there, whether that had been his intention or not, and now Aziraphale was stuck with that unbearable longing and a need that was very old, very sharp, and very, very loud. It was like listening to someone screaming just beyond his reach, a howl full of hunger and screeching anger that went on and on and on, endless and piercing, impossible to ignore, impossible to stifle. It was maddening.

Anathema turned to look at him with a waiting look on her face.

Aziraphale cleared his throat, trying to look unconcerned, even as he knew that very little escaped Anathema’s clever eyes.

“Have you seen Crowley, perhaps?” he asked eventually, in his best attempt at a casual conversation.

Anathema wrinkled her nose. Aziraphale was too unsettled to read her expression, and could only hope that he’d managed to keep at least _some_ of his shameful lack of control to himself. He wouldn’t have bet on it, though.

“Yes,” Anathema answered. “He’s an early riser, that much I can say. Always up and about since dawn. I’m not sure he goes to sleep at all, to be honest.”

Aziraphale wondered whether asking more would be wise. He didn’t want to give his household the impression that he didn’t know where his supposed Submissive was or what he was doing, but that nagging, needling feeling would not leave him alone. He was powerless to stop, powerless to let it go. He’d never felt so much out of control, and it was starting to scare him. He was supposed to be better than that. He was supposed to be in charge. He was supposed to be a blasted Dominant, for crying out loud.

And yet.

“He takes his meals with you, I presume?” he couldn’t stop himself from asking.

_Has he been eating properly? Has he been taking care of himself? Is he all right?_

It was like a pressure between his eyes, like nails being hammered into his skull.

_Tell me, is he all right?_

Anathema was regarding him with a piercing, inescapable gaze.

“Yes. Mostly standing in a corner, but we’re working on that.” A quick, thin smirk. “Madame Tracy keeps a keen eye on him, and I don’t think she’ll stand for such nonsense much longer. She already went to fetch him personally when he tried to skip a meal.”

It was strange to hear that his staff took such liberties with Crowley, when Aziraphale could barely say two words in a row to the man without being stared down in a blatant show of distrust. It was strange, and Aziraphale had to admit that a small, reproachable part of himself found the entire affair quite upsetting. He was glad that someone was looking after Crowley, but he couldn’t silence that voice in his head that kept screaming at him that that was supposed to be _his_ job, and he needed to get up immediately and carry it out like he’d been supposed to do from the beginning.

Aziraphale pressed two fingers against the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache coming. What an odd thing. He could count on his fingers how many headaches he’d had in the full four decades and a half of his life. Yet, after the days he’d been having and the significant upheaval his quiet lifestyle had been forced to endure, a headache was really the least he could expect.

“Have you been talking to him, yet?” he asked, hoping that a subdued tone of voice would help with his oncoming migraine.

Anathema was looking curiously at him.

“Yes,” she answered, arching a brow in obvious disbelief. “He wanted some work to do, apparently. He said he had your permission.”

“He does,” Aziraphale confirmed. “He just wants to make himself useful.”

“Well, he has a long way to go about it, then,” Anathema curtly replied. “I’ve never seen anyone more oblivious than he is. I don’t believe he’s ever done a day of honest work in his entire life. You don’t really think you would need to teach someone how to _dust_ , but from the look he’d given the feather duster, you would think he’d used the thing for anything but what it was supposed to be used for.”

Aziraphale, who did have quite a few feathery implements in his well-concealed arsenal, chose not to comment on that. He coughed in his fist and looked away, knowing full well that not one twitch of his eyebrows had been missed by Anathema’s keen eyes.

“I would like to ask you for a favour, Anathema,” Aziraphale said. “I know you’re quite busy with your own work, but could you... would you please be so kind as to look after him for me?”

It shouldn’t have been such a difficult thing to say. And yet, Aziraphale had to punch each word out of his throat, out of his mouth, and they all tasted like ashes on his tongue.

The dull ache in his head had turned into a beating, pulsing kind of pain, each burst like a lash snapping between his eyes.

Anathema frowned at him. She looked a bit troubled.

“Of course, Master Aziraphale. It won’t be a problem. He’s not a bad sort, just... a little clueless, I guess. I’ll see what I can do for him.” She paused, her warm, searching eyes steadily fixed on his face. “Do you really think that a bit of cleaning and cooking is the best thing he could do with his time?”

_Instead of servicing you, which is obviously what he’d been trained for._

The rest went unspoken, but Aziraphale heard it anyway.

“I think it is, actually,” he answered, surprising even himself. But the more Aziraphale thought about it, the surer he was. Crowley should’ve collected some experiences, by now, perhaps not about cooking and dusting in particular, but at least about _something_. The fact that he had no clue about anything that wasn’t submitting to another man’s will and possibly escaping from said man was troubling. It meant that he had been required or allowed to do very little that wasn’t pleasing his master, and while many Submissives would’ve been perfectly happy with that, Crowley didn’t seem the type that would enjoy a pampered, sheltered life. For a horrifying, sickening moment, Aziraphale wondered how much time exactly Crowley had spent chained up to a surface in the last eighteen years.

“Master Aziraphale?”

Anathema’s soft voice startled him back to the present. Aziraphale blinked, focusing his gaze back on her. He hadn’t meant to space off quite like that, and his mind had gone to places that Aziraphale didn’t particularly care to visit again. The idea that a Submissive could be mistreated as such was so fundamentally upsetting that Aziraphale wondered if perhaps he was reading a bit too much into it. But he’d seen the way Crowley had reacted to a simple spanking, the way Gabriel had delivered him to Aziraphale, like cattle. The least he could do was wonder, and try to make up for the transgressions of others.

“Yes, Anathema?” She looked a little uncomfortable, which was rare enough to draw the entirety of Aziraphale’s attention. “What’s the matter, my dear?”

“Is... Master Crowley... going to stay?”

It was a rather pointed question, a Russian-doll kind of question, with more layers than a casual observer would notice. It wasn’t Anathema’s place to question Aziraphale’s motives or decisions, but she worried about him. She wanted to know if keeping Crowley was the wisest choice, with his attempted escapes, and now whatever was going on between them. Anathema was no fool, and while the separate sleeping arrangements could be due to a plethora of different reasons, Aziraphale had an inkling that Anathema had guessed the right one.

“He’ll be my guest for as long as he wants my hospitality,” he answered resolutely, “and that’s all there is to know about it.”

It was a firm, if a little harsh, injunction not to probe any further. Aziraphale would normally have no qualms about sharing his doubts with Anathema, but he didn’t want to discuss Crowley with her, not like that. It would feel like a betrayal, and God knew that Crowley had already suffered through enough of those already.

Anathema bowed her head.

“Of course, Master Aziraphale. I’ll fetch your breakfast, and find something useful for him to do.”

“Thank you, Anathema.”

She closed the door as she went, and Aziraphale gazed absently out of the glazed window. The trees were swaying softly under the gentle blowing of the first November winds, and the garden was covered in rusty leaves. It looked like it was going to rain soon.

* * *

Aziraphale saw very little of Crowley, during the following days. Once he heard his voice coming from the kitchen, but he’d been already gone, by the time Aziraphale walked through the door. Then he saw his retreating shadow cast across the stairs, but he’d walked onto the first floor to a door that was already clicking shut. Crowley ate every single meal in the kitchen, according to Anathema, and the entire staff seemed to have seen more than their fair share of him. He appeared to be everywhere, watching, questioning, and generally annoying the hell out of his household, but to Aziraphale he was nothing but a ghost.

It dawned on him, then, that Crowley was actively avoiding him.

Not that it was a particularly difficult feat. Aziraphale was a creature of habits, always taking his meals in the small dining room, spending most of the day in the study or the library and often retiring to the drawing-room for some light evening reading. Crowley was intelligent enough to have figured out Aziraphale’s movements by the first day, and eluding him probably hadn’t required much effort on his part. It was a little dejecting, however, that Crowley would go out of his way to avoid even looking at him. It hurt. And the fact that there was a very loud, very insistent part of Aziraphale that _wanted_ to see him instead, that yearned and craved the sight of his face, did very little to help. Aziraphale truly wanted for Crowley to feel safe and at home there, and he sincerely wanted to spare him anything that could upset the fragile status-quo they’d managed to cobble up, but it was difficult to live under the same roof and never get to see him once. The entire house seemed to bear his seal, every corner, every room, as though his simply being in them had somehow marked them forever, and Aziraphale could neither pretend that nothing had happened nor seek him out to quench the terrible, gnawing hunger that his absence was carving inside his chest.

Truth to be told, he could understand if Crowley needed some space, after all he’d gone through. If what Aziraphale had surmised was correct, he’d most likely never had so much freedom as he did now, and the last thing he probably wanted was to seek the company of yet another Dom. It was perfectly natural, if a bit disheartening, but it irked Aziraphale’s dominant side being apart from him for such a long stretch of time. His most basic instincts wanted nothing more than to grab Crowley tight and never let him go, and knowing that every single time he’d seen him Crowley had been in distress did nothing to help. There was a screeching, primeval part of Aziraphale that wouldn’t stop screaming at him to find Crowley, keep him close, keep him safe, and could not understand that that was exactly what would damage Crowley the most. It was the same side that didn’t seem to care one bit about the fact that Crowley wasn’t his Submissive, nor wanted to be. It seemed to exist in a vacuum of rational thought, where only a jagged, growling need remained. Aziraphale could feel its teeth pressing against his nape every time he looked up and Crowley wasn’t there. He could only hope that it’d become easier with time, because he didn’t know how long he could endure that kind of strain, and he had no other alternatives than ride it out.

He hadn’t still been able to catch sight of Crowley when the collar arrived, one week later. Anathema brought the beautiful leather box to the small dining room together with his breakfast, and Aziraphale could do nothing but stare at it for so long that his food had become cold, by the time he’d managed to shake himself out of that reverie. He reached out to touch the box in a daze, and realised with genuine horror that his fingers were shaking. He snatched the hand away, forehead instinctively wrinkling into a frown at that unexpected and unwanted development. The situation was deteriorating fast, and for the first time in his life, Aziraphale felt like he had absolutely no capability whatsoever to influence its outcome. It was not only an unpleasant revelation to have, but a frankly alarming one.

He retreated to his study a short time later, leaving his untouched plate of cool beans and no-longer-edible meat on the table and taking the collar with him. He wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to do with it. What he _wanted_ to do was to seek Crowley out, make him bend, make him _kneel_ , and put the collar around his neck himself, caressing the skin as he went. But he couldn’t do that. Not only Crowley wouldn’t enjoy it, but his entire being rebelled against the idea of forcing the man into something he didn’t want. Watching the betrayal shine in those amber eyes would shatter Aziraphale, would break him irreparably. The fact that he wanted to was bad enough. Aziraphale couldn’t escape the suffocating guilt, building like a wave into his gut.

It made something bleed deep into his bones, knowing that Crowley would find something so important, so beautifully binding like a collar, distasteful at best and revolting at worst. That he would hate and resent every touch of the leather against his skin, every minute spent wearing something that held such a profound meaning to Aziraphale. It added another layer to that desolate feeling of loneliness and thwarted need that seemed to bloom a little every day in Aziraphale’s chest, taking space in a knot of hungry mouths full of teeth like a carnivorous plant.

Yet, the collar had to be delivered to Crowley, one way or another. Aziraphale could bear being apart from him, whatever the strain, but he couldn’t allow Crowley to endanger himself, which would surely happen, sooner or later, if he kept going about without a collar. Gabriel could be back at any time, and even if they’d managed to wriggle free once, he wouldn’t be liable to back down again, just because he’d heard yet another pretty story. A paired Submissive was bound by law to wear a collar. Almost everything else in a partnership was strictly between a Dominant and his Submissive, but that was clearly stated, and left no room for discussion. If Gabriel caught Crowley once again without a collar, he could very well take him away, send him back to training, pair him off with someone else, and Aziraphale would never see him again.

It was too much of a risk, allowing Crowley to go without. And the man had chosen the collar, after all. He could’ve gotten himself a smaller, less visible thing, but he’d purposely selected a size that would be easily seen, easily recognised. Impossible to miss. Which perhaps had been Crowley’s goal all along, Aziraphale was forced to consider. If he had to wear a sign of his bondage to someone he didn’t want nor like, it would stand to reason to make the most out of it. A conspicuous collar would give Crowley much less grief than a barely noticeable one, were he to go to town on a whim or to be seen outside Aziraphale’s estate. If that was indeed the reasoning behind Crowley’s choice, Aziraphale had to admit that he’d greatly underestimated the man. It was a smart, calculating move, one that did not take into slightest consideration the effects that seeing Crowley wearing his collar would be having on Aziraphale. Or maybe it did, and Crowley was torturing him on purpose, sharing the weight of his misery.

Then again, how could Crowley even know how Aziraphale felt? They’d barely exchanged a handful of words in the eventful occasions they’d managed to be in the same room together. Crowley had to know Aziraphale found him attractive, but how could he know about the dreams, the battering compulsion to see to Crowley’s every need, the ache he felt at being apart from him? How could he know about Aziraphale’s slow slide towards obsession?

Aziraphale took a deep breath. He was seated on his favourite armchair, the plush one close to the window, and his study was a familiar, comforting presence around him. The embossed box with the blasted collar was sitting in his lap, and he’d been gripping it with enough strength to leave the regular imprints of his fingers on the supple leather, when he let go. His heart was thundering, his hands shaking. He had no idea where Crowley was, what he was doing, and it scratched inside, that not knowing. It spread, dilated inside his chest, compressing his lungs, squeezing his heart. It made breathing difficult. It bled.

Aziraphale was not so uneducated to ignore what a Dom drop was. He’d been taught about it, and even experienced a few, when he was younger and less practised. He’d been unable to separate from the Submissives he’d taken for the night, to disjoint from the heights of their shared experiences enough to revel in the memories instead of dwell on the withdrawal. Companions were not meant to last longer than that, nor did they need a Dominant the way other Submissives did, and yet he hadn’t been able to avoid feeling like he’d failed them, somehow, disappearing from their lives instead of being there to cater to their needs. He hadn’t _wanted_ to stick around, but that had been irrelevant to his brain chemistry, which had not greatly appreciated experiencing the intense satisfaction of being needed to that absolute, addictive level only to be cut out completely a few hours later. He’d felt lonely, bereft of purpose, guilty and full of unfocused shame.

So, yes, he knew what all that was about. He’d got wiser with age, and it’d been at least a decade since he’d last experienced a drop, but the memories were still vivid enough that he could catalogue the symptoms and draw a comparison. It wasn’t even that outlandish a concept, really–he’d never properly addressed nor examined the failed scene he’d shared with Crowley, and that was the only way his brain knew to remind him that it’d been difficult, especially the aftermath, and that sweeping it under the rug wouldn’t make it go away. The simple concept that _he_ could be in any way affected by something that had upset _Crowley_ so much was enough to drown him in a fresh outpour of shame, but it was what it was, and perhaps ignoring it wasn’t the best solution to that particular quandary. He’d have to deal with it, at some point, with the guilt of not having been able to take a better course of action nor managed to pull them both through with the minimum amount of grace required from his position, but it was painful, and shameful, and Aziraphale had never been very good at tackling those sorts of problems. He’d simply let them build up and up until he couldn’t take them anymore, and then he’d seek out a Companion for the night to use as an outlet for all that misplaced anxiety. He knew it was nothing but a palliative, but proving to himself that he was in fact able to cater to somebody’s needs for a while was usually enough to put a lid on that powder keg, or at least enough to prevent an imminent explosion. He’d never considered the idea of treating them to a deeper level, or taking over a proper Submissive to quiet at least some of those biological drives that worsened the anxiety.

There was some definite truth in what the Council said. Submissives were indeed incapable of sustaining a long period of time without an external source of control, but there was something to say about Doms being left to fend for themselves, too. There was a reason Aziraphale was the odd one out, instead of the norm, and it wasn’t just social pressure. Most Dominants would choose to navigate the difficulties and strains of a partnership with a stranger, instead of dealing with the fallout of a thwarted need to cater and see to someone else, to maintain control through the exertion of control. Submissives and Dominants could both get by without a partner, yes, but very few would choose getting by, when a better option was available. And so you had it–a population that was mostly paired off in more or less successful partnerships, and the odd ones out, the Dominants that had to seek for outlets to remain sane and the Submissives who voluntarily enlisted themselves as Companions exactly with the same goal in mind. Aziraphale had often felt like he had more in common with those Submissives than other Dominants, both forced to bow down to nature on a regular basis to keep their freedom. And now he didn’t seem to be able even to do that anymore.

Aziraphale sighed, blinking himself back to the present. He’d been looking out of the window without seeing, and now he took in the sight of his poor garden, which had been left to fend for itself, too. Both Newton and Mr. Shadwell (the latter with a whole lot of grumbling) had done some upkeep, here and there, and although the results were far from perfect, the garden still looked pleasant enough to stroll through, on a sunny day. It looked a little forlorn and a little wild, clumsily groomed and hastily patched up, but it would hold. It would dream of a past beauty, perhaps, and mourn the structure of a daily maintenance, of rotten roots that were taken out instead of covered up, but it would hold.

It was Aziraphale’s garden, after all.

* * *

Four days later, the collar was still sitting on Aziraphale’s desk. The small embossed box had been judging him silently since it’d landed on his breakfast table, and Aziraphale was getting quite fed up with it. Crowley’s absence was a pulsing sort of pain, like a rotten tooth, and just like an abscess that wouldn’t go away, it was making him irritable. Aziraphale hadn’t seen him since he’d ordered the blasted thing, that day with Mr. Young, and although almost an entire week had passed since he’d received it, he hadn’t come any closer to a solution for his problem. He couldn’t bring himself to seek Crowley out and give it to him, couldn’t deal with the inevitable disgust and rejection he’d read on his face. And yet he was well aware that every day that passed without a collar clasped around Crowley’s neck was a day Aziraphale was endangering him, knowingly and deliberately, and the shame was weighing like lead on his chest.

Aziraphale was a coward. That was the truth, the only truth. He’d never taken a Submissive because he was a coward, and a selfish one at that, and now he was consciously putting Crowley in danger for exactly the same reason.

And yet, yet, he couldn’t stand the thought of looking into Crowley’s eyes, after so long, only to see scorn and badly-concealed hatred. He couldn’t. So, he took the coward’s way out. He rang the bell and waited with the box awkwardly lying in his lap, the leather all nice and warm after having been in such close contact with his body for so long. Aziraphale hated the thing, and yet, he’d taken to touching it as a paltry palliative to what he couldn’t have.

He didn’t have to wait for long for the curt knock on the door.

“Come,” he answered.

Anathema opened the door.

“Have you called, Master Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale nodded, taking a moment before getting up from his armchair. He felt old, almost creaking, like the cracked spine of a book.

“I’d like you to give this to Crowley,” he said, awkwardly thrusting the box to Anathema. “He should wear it. It’s not safe doing without.”

Anathema’s eyes looked huge behind her round glasses. She didn’t wear them often. She’d probably been busy looking over his expense books or whatever she did to keep the house running.

She made no move to take the box.

“Are you-” A pause, as she obviously thought of the best way to put the question forward without reaching beyond her means. “Are you sure that’s the best way?” she eventually asked, voice low and careful. “It’s... it’s something he should have from you.”

Aziraphale tried to smile, but he could _feel_ how miserable and ugly that smile was. He could only imagine how it looked upon his face.

“It may be, but I don’t think he’d appreciate the thought.” He hesitated, unsure about how much he should share, how much of his conflict was proper for Anathema to see. They were close, but she was still his head of staff, and he was supposed to be the Dominant of that household. He had no qualms about showing kindness, but that strangling sense of powerlessness plaguing him was shameful enough even without witnesses. “We are not... like that,” he eventually added. “He’s not my Submissive. But it would be cruel to turn him away, and that’s the only way he can stay.”

“He’s not your Submissive, but he’s pretending to be for the Council,” Anathema summarised, staring at him straight in the eyes. She slowly reached out with her hand, taking the box. It pained Aziraphale to let go of it, but let go he did. “I know it’s not my place to say this, Master Aziraphale, and I’ll understand if you feel the need to reprimand me for it, but I think you’re wrong. _This_ is cruel.”

Her words stung, burning and painful like hot coals. He almost felt like rebuking her, but she was probably right. Aziraphale bowed his head, the weight of his misery pressing him down.

“It’s the best I can do to help him,” Aziraphale said, unable to keep the apology from his voice.

Anathema regarded him a moment longer with those unnaturally huge eyes, box clutched to her chest.

“I wasn’t talking about Master Crowley,” she answered eventually, before bowing her head. “With your permission, Master Aziraphale.”

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale stammered, like a bumbling fool, watching her in stunned silence as she took her leave and silently closed the door behind her.

* * *

Aziraphale had no delusion about what the collar would mean to Crowley. He couldn’t claim to know him very well, but Crowley had struck him as a very practical, very invested-in-his-own-survival sort of man. He would probably consider the collar a distasteful, possibly repulsive means to an end, and while he would very unlikely be overjoyed at the thought of wearing the proof of Aziraphale’s ownership, Aziraphale wasn’t really expecting Crowley to fight the notion.

What he also wasn’t expecting, was to find Crowley in his bedroom that evening, kneeling on the bare floor. He was completely naked, save for Aziraphale’s collar fastened around his neck, and was holding himself in the same composed, graceful stance Aziraphale had first seen him in more than two weeks before, when Gabriel had dropped him in Aziraphale’s drawing-room without as much as a how do you do. He’d let his hair down, and the soft waves of his curls covered his face almost completely.

He was the perfect picture of submission, with his bowed head and his hands clasped neatly behind his back, and he was breathtakingly beautiful.

He also looked so incongruous kneeling there, in Aziraphale’s bedroom, after having avoided him for so long, that Aziraphale was more taken aback than aroused.

(Although he was aroused, indeed. It’d have been difficult not to be, with such a gorgeous creature kneeling meekly in front of him, naked and pale, all lean muscles and miles of soft-looking skin.)

Aziraphale had absolutely no idea what to make of all that.

“Crowley...?” he called, the shock of being so close to him, finally, after all that time, hitting him all of a sudden at the sound of his own voice calling his name. He felt almost drunk with it, not unlike the elation of a chronic pain disappearing after a long agony. Crowley’s absence had thrummed under his skin like a dull ache, so persistent Aziraphale had almost forgotten it was there, but now that it was gone he could feel the absence of that ache like a miracle, a benediction.

“Crowley, what...” he stammered, when the man didn’t as much as stir from his stance, “what is this? What are you even _doing_?”

That was enough to draw the attention of those amber eyes. Crowley tilted his head in a flutter of red curls, looking up at him through the wild locks with a face so carefully devoid of expression that Aziraphale’s heart ached with it.

“Isn’t that obvious?” Crowley rasped, low and quivering and full of anger. His control didn’t extend to his voice, apparently. “I’m kneeling naked on your bloody floor. What do you think I’m doing?”

Aziraphale didn’t have an answer for that. He just stared at Crowley in shock, taking in the sturdy shape of his shoulders, the straining chest, the dark nipples. It was cool enough in the room that his skin had broken into goosebumps, and his nipples looked small and hard, deliciously peaked. There was a smattering of freckles on those shoulders, and the black collar looked almost lurid against the creamy skin, the contrast so stark and brutal that it had Aziraphale salivate at the sight, an animal reaction. It was _Aziraphale’s_ collar, not something the Council had picked for him. Crowley had chosen well. The black leather looked supple and soft against his skin, an uninterrupted loop that cupped his neck like a lovers’ hand. It was an exquisite thing, so elegant in its simplicity that it made the Council’s thicker collar look clunky in comparison. Aziraphale was utterly bewitched by the sight.

Crowley’s voice, strained and almost resigned, broke his reverie.

“Is this not enough?” he asked, something twitching, quivering in his tone that almost brought Aziraphale as well down to his knees. “Do you want me to beg?”

Although that would be indeed an enticing concept, in another time and another place, it had no business to be right then and there. Aziraphale didn’t like how small Crowley sounded, how hopeless. He didn’t like how it squeezed his heart.

“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale murmured, so very softly. “Of course not. I’ll give you anything you want, anything you need. You only have to ask.”

Crowley’s eyes, which had grown wide and almost glassy at the low purr of Aziraphale’s voice, turned hard again.

“Asking, begging. Same thing.” He pointed his chin at something behind Aziraphale. “You can start by closing the bloody door, if you are in such an accommodating mood. I can feel drafts in all sorts of places, kneeling here naked like a twit.”

“Language, dear,” Aziraphale tutted, but closed the door nevertheless. “And that’s not asking, it’s ordering about.”

“You said you’d give me anything I wanted,” Crowley bit back, all shrewd amber eyes. “Isn’t asking the same thing as giving orders, if I know for a fact that my requests will be granted?”

The challenge in his voice startled a laugh out of Aziraphale. He liked this Crowley much better, all sharp wit and even sharper edges. It did something to him, something unpleasant, to see those edges dulled and worn-out.

“Well, that depends,” Aziraphale answered, slowly making his way to the bed, telegraphing every movement. He was achingly aware of the absolute focus of Crowley’s eyes, trained on him as he sat down on the mattress in a gentle bounce. “Does it feel the same to you, ordering me about and asking me for things, knowing your needs will be met?”

Crowley scoffed, looking away. There was a light blush on his cheeks, spreading down to his chest. He seemed almost uncomfortable now, which was odd, considering how at ease he looked being completely naked and obviously on display.

“What does that have to do with it?” Crowley grumbled, refusing to look at him. It was something that Crowley seemed to be wont to do every time he felt overwhelmed, and while Aziraphale didn’t particularly like it, he also wouldn’t push such an issue without having either the right or the footing to do so.

“It has everything to do with it,” Aziraphale rebutted, not unkindly. “It’s the point of it, actually.”

Crowley scoffed again, partially turning to give him a scathing look down his nose. How he managed to do that from his kneeling position Aziraphale had no idea, but he was properly impressed.

“So what,” Crowley almost snarled, “you’re saying that if I liked that better, giving orders, you’d allow me to do that?”

Aziraphale tilted his head to the side, unperturbed by the blatant hostility.

“Wouldn’t allowance imply a request?”

“Not when I’m the one taking orders, it doesn’t,” Crowley immediately replied, sure of his answer.

Aziraphale kept his voice low, soft.

“Are you sure?”

That seemed to do the trick. Crowley hesitated, studying Aziraphale in silence for a long, long moment, before answering.

“It _didn’t_ , then.”

There was a bitterness to it that Aziraphale felt like a giant hand, clutching at his chest. He wasn’t one to experience fury easily, but he could, and would, on Crowley’s behalf. The way he’d been treated was nothing short of inconceivable.

“I see,” he hummed, as gently as he knew how, voice buttery soft. “Tell me. What are you allowing me to do, now?”

Crowley stared at him with huge eyes, seemingly at a loss for words. He obviously hadn’t expected that turn of events, and had no idea how to deal with it. Aziraphale ached to close the small space that kept them apart and touch his cheek, to kneel at his side and hold him, tell him that it’d be all right, he didn’t have to choose anything now, Aziraphale would take care of it, but that was not how it worked. Crowley had been robbed of his own agency for too long, Aziraphale suspected with anguished anger, and he would not benefit from yet another Dominant telling him what he needed. Besides, Aziraphale knew still too little about him to be effective in that specific role, as much as the growling thing in his chest disliked the concept. After two weeks of aching in his absence, of dropping, of torturing himself over whatever had transpired between them, Aziraphale felt the need to reach out and simply _touch_ like an excruciating, agonising drive that wouldn’t be appeased, but he would _not_ further harm Crowley with another ill-advised action. He would wait, this time. And listen.

“Take your time, darling,” he murmured, as Crowley grew restless, obviously distressed by his own inability to put his needs into words. “I can fetch you a blanket, if you’re cold.”

“I can’t keep myself under control,” Crowley blurted out, sudden and shocked and furious, “I tried, I _did_ , but I can’t. I feel myself spiralling, losing bits and pieces along the way. I can’t stop it. I can’t do anything about it.” He glanced away, looking anguished, full of unfocused rage. “That’s why the Council always finds me. The truth is that I _let_ them find me. I can’t live with a Dominant, and yet I can’t live alone, I can’t stay away. I need the structure, because there is no structure in my mind, only chaos, and I can’t... I can’t make order out of the chaos alone. I need help.”

Crowley let out a short, almost barking laugh, a sound full of such miserable, intolerable anger that Aziraphale was startled by its strength.

“I’m all the Council ever said I am, after all. An unbalanced, weak Submissive, out of control, incapable of living free and yet incapable of submitting.” He gritted his teeth. “Nothing but inferior stock.”

“Oh, darling, no,” Aziraphale whispered, his heart breaking, his hands shaking with the need to reach out and touch Crowley. “You’re none of those things. You’re the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever seen, and anyone thinking differently is wrong.”

Crowley scoffed, a hateful, almost hysterical sound.

“Oh, yes,” he snarled, mouth open in a sneer full of teeth. “I’m handsome. I know I am. I’m also ageing. I’m thirty-nine, well past my prime, and soon even _this_ will not be enough. The one thing I have, worn past its usefulness.”

Aziraphale didn’t know what to say. He’d never been in a position of having his physical form evaluated in any way, aside from the occasional jeer from Gabriel about losing his gut, and he’d never spared a thought about ageing Submissives without a Dominant. He couldn’t remember being with a Companion who had passed his forties. He’d never wondered why.

“Crowley...”

He’d used the softest voice he had, trying to convey his heartache. He was helpless in front of such misery, of such rage, and he felt profoundly ignorant, useless. He didn’t know what to do. A part of him resented that, and ached for simpler times, where being with a Submissive only meant having a nice evening. Another part of him wanted to grab this man close enough to bruise them both and never let go.

Something in Aziraphale’s voice seemed to reach him, somehow. Crowley crumpled on the floor, his stance broken, his naked limbs shaking on the aged beams.

Aziraphale was on his feet in a heartbeat, but Crowley’s voice stopped him before he could make a step.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he hissed, slowly but surely regaining his composure, staring up at him with savage amber eyes. “I don’t need your bleeding heart. I need this. And you _will_ give it to me.”

Aziraphale was taken aback, by his tone, by his gaze, by his anger. There was a roiling hatred glittering in there, somewhere deep inside, and Aziraphale could only hope it wasn’t entirely for him. The alternative, however, that saw that hatred directed to Crowley himself instead, was much worse.

“Yes,” Aziraphale simply confirmed, sitting back on the bed, “I will.”

It seemed the right thing to say. Crowley took a deep breath, then another, and one more, wrestling himself under control in an almost physical, visible effort. It hurt, and it glowed, like a burning candle.

Crowley straightened up, clasped his hands behind his back. His skin looked blotchy, both pale and blushing in places. His eyes were burning. He had his mouth seared in a thin line that almost looked like a snarl, and his elegant muscles locked up in place, forcing his body to hold the position, to bend to his will. Aziraphale was in awe.

“Go on,” Crowley hissed, almost like a challenge.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what the Submissive wanted, but he knew that talking it out wasn’t on the table anymore. Crowley looked barely capable of holding himself together as it was. Opening up wasn’t an option. Aziraphale would have to improvise, and hope he would strike the right balance between pushing too much and not enough. It was like shooting at a target in the middle of the night across a field with no light and a foot caught in a bear trap, but Aziraphale knew, with absolute certainty, that if he turned Crowley away now, he’d lose him for good. Aziraphale could endure lots of things, but that was not on the list.

Aziraphale considered walking up to Crowley, looming over him. He discharged it. Standing close to a kneeling person was a very blatant, very powerful way to exert control over them, but he had an inkling that Crowley would be more receptive to a softer approach. Something that required an independent action from his part would also be good. Control had been forced upon Crowley for so long that, perhaps, being asked gently to give it up would be received better than a blatant show of strength.

“Come here, darling,” Aziraphale called, gently enough, but with steel underneath. Crowley frowned, staring at him with something between confusion and surprise. He’d obviously expected to be dragged about by the scruff of his neck, or something of the like. He looked like he didn’t know how to comply, and Aziraphale decided that perhaps offering a few options would help.

“Come to me, Crowley,” he encouraged him, “any way you want. Crawl, shuffle, stand. Your choice.”

Crowley’s challenging glare faltered, then disappeared altogether. He looked troubled, and angry at being troubled. Aziraphale repressed a sigh. It was such a gnarled knot, all those conflicting feelings, that he was almost afraid to stick his hands in it. But he had to begin somewhere, if he wanted to pull the thread loose.

“Would it be easier, if I choose for you?” he asked, ever so softly.

Crowley glanced away, a blush spreading on his cheeks. Embarrassment and anger. It was quite easy to read. And something there, something with deeper roots. Something that Aziraphale hoped was a hint of arousal.

“Yes,” Crowley answered, oddly subdued. Aziraphale hated that defeated note in Crowley’s voice, he hated it almost as he hated the thought of what had been done to him to make him so conflicted towards the very idea of submitting, of bending even barely enough to get pleasure from it.

He pondered about which option would be best suited for the occasion. Shuffling would be awkward, and standing jarring. Aziraphale didn’t want Crowley to think. He seemed troubled enough already, and every time he secluded himself into his own head he came out even more conflicted, more spiteful, and more pained. Aziraphale wanted to give him something simple that he could enjoy, something soothing, without cutting himself over the jagged edges of things that could not be changed anymore. Crawling would provide the easiest solution, with the minimal amount of coordination and thinking required.

Aziraphale patted his thigh, his mind made up.

“Crawl, then.”

The blush burnt brighter on Crowley’s cheeks, trickling down to his chest. Crawling could be perceived either as humiliating or powerful, depending on the state of mind of the person involved, but Aziraphale didn’t think that Crowley could yet see it as nothing more than skulking at the feet of his master like a reprimanded dog. The grimace on his face as he unclasped his hands and pressed the palms against the floor confirmed Aziraphale’s worries, but there was nothing to be done about it now. Aziraphale stayed where he was, seated on the edge of the bed, and waited for Crowley to crawl to him on all fours.

And what a sight that was.

Aziraphale was dimly aware of his thickening cock, straining against the fly of his pressed trousers, and of how hot he felt despite being in nothing more than shirtsleeves and waistcoat. But that was barely a flicker at the edge of his attention, his entire focus trained on the slithering shape of Crowley as though there was nothing else left in the entire universe. He could barely breathe, faced as he was with the elegant twisting of Crowley’s spine, the supple rolling of his shoulders, the swaying of his red curls. Aziraphale memorised every single bunching up and releasing of his muscles along his vertebrae, the tensing of every sinew, the glorious clenching of his arse as he shuffled forward awkwardly, and elegantly, and everything in between. Crowley looked dejected and deceptively meek as he crawled, vulnerable, delectable, and Aziraphale was struggling to keep his hunger in check, to stop himself from eating him whole. How easy it would be to stand and fist his hair, keeping him down, keeping him in place, keeping him close, naked at his feet. But not if Crowley didn’t want that. It was atrocious, wanting so much. It burnt, like clutching embers in bare hands.

Aziraphale spread his thighs when Crowley reached him, wordlessly inviting him close. Crowley took the hint, kneeling between his legs, and reached almost resignedly for his fly. Aziraphale came back to himself just in time to stop him, clasping Crowley’s hands between his own. It was the most intimate touch they’d shared, and it thrilled him, the tenderness of it.

“No, darling,” he whispered, stroking his thumb against Crowley’s knuckles.

Crowley took his hands away, letting them fall in his lap, and Aziraphale tried his best not to feel too dejected at the loss of contact.

“No?” Crowley repeated, looking confused and vaguely dazzled. “Why not?”

“Because that’s not the point of this exercise,” Aziraphale gently answered. Crowley didn’t seem convinced, but he looked too hazy to discuss it. He was looking up at him with eyes that were just starting to lose focus, through the thick black lashes.

“Relax, now,” Aziraphale instructed him, finally, _finally_ sinking his hand into the thick mass of Crowley’s red hair. He dragged his nails across the scalp, and Crowley’s breath stuttered, his back arching a little. “Close your eyes.”

It had been a difficult order to give, with the way Crowley was staring up at him from between his legs, his chin tilted up, his lids at half-mast over eyes that were slowly taking an almost dreamy hue. His lips were wet and slightly parted, his breath coming out in quivering gushes. There was colour on his cheeks, and the snake tattoo stood out just as dark and vibrant as the black collar around his throat.

Slowly, almost unwillingly, Crowley complied, shutting his eyes. Aziraphale thought about slipping his fingers into that wet mouth, fucking it gently as Crowley melted between his thighs, then trailing his fingers down, pulling at the collar, making it tight against the back of Crowley’s neck. He did nothing of the sort. He wasn’t sure how far he could push before Crowley would start pushing back, and he wanted to avoid another botched scene, if he could. He gently guided Crowley to lay his forehead against his thigh, instead, and kept him there with a steady hand pressed against his nape.

It was a quiet affair, Aziraphale found out, and surprisingly soothing, having Crowley kneeling in silence between his legs. It wasn’t sexual, not exactly, although it had the potential of becoming sexual really fast, if the situation developed in the right direction, but Aziraphale wasn’t all that bothered to try. It would be lovely, of course, to drink in Crowley’s pleasure, but a taste of stillness from that riotous mind was just as good. Aziraphale revelled in it, allowing it to smooth down his own ruffled feathers, to take the edge away from that unbearable need that had been eating him alive for weeks. He needed to feel Crowley close, to know for a fact that he was safe and in his care, almost as much as he needed to lay his hands on him, to wring orgasm after orgasm out of his willing, eager body. He didn’t know exactly why, but he hungered for this man, and wasn’t sure that anything they would ever do could possibly quench that hunger. But that was enough, for now–the contact, the helplessness of him, the way he gave up control so completely.

Crowley was gorgeous, when he let go. His body was always so full of static tension, giving off in waves the effort he did to keep himself together at all times, that seeing the muscles unclench and relax was a thing of beauty. He seemed almost to melt in the safe enclosure of Aziraphale’s legs, his shoulders drooping, his spine loosening up. The more he relaxed, the more he leaned his weight on Aziraphale’s thigh, trusting Aziraphale to hold him up, and that show of trust was enough to shoot a thrill down Aziraphale’s spine. He moved his hand, sinking it again in Crowley’s red hair, and pulled gently at the roots. Crowley shuddered, then let go something that was almost a moan, muffled by Aziraphale’s thigh.

Just like that, Aziraphale was achingly hard in his pants, his cock straining, a hair’s breadth away from poking at Crowley’s cheek. Aziraphale swallowed thickly, pulling at Crowley’s hair again, and refused to let himself get carried away. Exerting control was helping Aziraphale just as much as being pulled under was helping Crowley, and Aziraphale could feel the weight of that unbearable hunger lift slightly, one inch at a time, the sure knowledge of having Crowley where he belonged, close and satisfied and in his power, soothing the strain. That need, that push that had been prodding him along was muted now, and Aziraphale relaxed in the absence of that ache, allowed himself to let go just as much as Crowley was.

That, of course, was exactly the moment everything shattered.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what had happened, exactly. One moment, Crowley was perfectly still and relaxed under his hand. It was difficult to say with any certainty, hidden as he was against Aziraphale’s thigh, but he looked well on his way to subspace, all loose limbs and slow, regular breaths, with the occasional hitching when Aziraphale did something particularly clever to his scalp. One moment later, he’d started to squirm, to tense up, and eventually to struggle. Aziraphale tried to soothe him back to that relaxed state, but the more he tried, the more Crowley seemed to fight him. He eventually tore himself free from his hand, and Aziraphale let him go, trying to reconcile his own jagged return to reality with the panicked Submissive staring at him with huge, dazed, terrified eyes.

“What...” Crowley stammered, crawling away. “What’s happening?”

Aziraphale wasn’t at his brightest, right then and there. He’d been kicked quite brutally out of a scene, his body and brain struggling to come to term with the fact that the willing Submissive he was safely holding against him was out of reach now and looking at him with fearful eyes, as though something terrible had happened that Aziraphale hadn’t been able to prevent. He felt out of focus, confused, and most of his attention was concentrated on bringing his Submissive back where he belonged.

“What’s happening?” Aziraphale repeated, a bit dully. He chided himself. Even in his altered state, he could do better than that, surely. “Are you all right, my dear?”

“I don’t...” Crowley stopped, looked around, almost wildly. “I don’t know. I’m not sure. I... It was so confusing, it felt like... I don’t know, like I couldn’t tell where I was, like I wasn’t completely there, and...” He stopped, staring at Aziraphale, hard and wild like a cornered animal. “It was you. What have you done to me?”

Aziraphale was utterly bewildered, now. He had absolutely no idea what Crowley meant. Well, he guessed that he was talking about subspace, but beyond that he couldn’t comprehend why he would be so disconcerted.

“I don’t understand, darling,” Aziraphale said, trying to be as soothing as possible. “Have I done something to upset you?”

Crowley tried to stand up, too suddenly and way too brusquely, and dropped heavily onto his knees. Aziraphale was on his feet almost on instinct, without any direct input from his brain, but Crowley just scurried away.

“Don’t,” he hissed, trying again to stand and this time succeeding in getting his long legs under control. He looked tall and imposing like that, despite his thin chest and almost rangy frame, and most of it came from the panicky rage he was obviously feeding with every breath. “That’s not... that’s not normal, it’s never happened to me. The confusion, the... haze. It felt like I was drowning. Like I was losing control. That’s not what I wanted.”

There was such a horrible reproach in Crowley’s voice that to Aziraphale felt like a blow, in his slightly altered state of mind. Like a misstep. Like a mistake.

“I’m so sorry, my dear, I didn’t mean...” he started, stammering to a halt. What did he not mean to do? Make it all worse? He shook his head. It was a silly thing to say. “Help me understand,” he pleaded instead, “was that so different from the other times you slipped into subspace?”

That seemed enough to freeze Crowley on the spot. He stared at Aziraphale with huge, scared eyes, mouth working to say something. Then he seemed to think better of it, eyes hardening, mouth slamming shut into a hard line.

“’m sorry, I have to go,” he muttered between clenched teeth, grabbing a handful of clothes that Aziraphale hadn’t even noticed were orderly folded onto his armchair and making his escape without bothering to pull them on.

Aziraphale was left there, standing like a tit in the middle of his room, staring at the open door and the empty space that only one moment before Crowley had been occupying.

Another door slammed shut, somewhere close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a side note, the scene I was supposed to write in the last chapter still HASN’T shown up.  
> Yet another story that sneakily doubled in size while I wasn’t looking.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can hardly believe all the love this story has been getting. I feel so blessed. Thank you all so, so much.  
> I’d like to thank especially [Kazeetie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kazeetie/pseuds/Kazeetie), who has been so unbelievably kind to beta this chapter for me. If you’re reading a nice, clean chapter, it’s because this wonderful human being has taken care of all the embarrassing typos for me. She’s also a very talented artist, if you want to give her some love <3
> 
> For this chapter, **CW** for a minor panic attack due to past abuse. Nothing major, but if you’re triggered by those sorts of things, tread the last bit carefully.  
> 

The day after, the migraines started in earnest.

Aziraphale woke up after a tortured night of fitful sleep to a splitting pain burrowing into his brain from a spot between his eyes, like a nail being hammered straight into his skull. He hissed in agony as he tried to stand up, and it took him three attempts to get finally out of bed. Going downstairs didn’t seem like a feasible option, so he rang Anathema and waited for her arrival wrapped in his tartan dressing gown and huddled up in his armchair, like a pitiful invalid.

Anathema’s light knock at the door was like a pummelling onto his very own skull. Aziraphale called her in, feeling as if his head was going to be cleaved neatly in half. He’d tried to draw the curtains open, but the light had blinded him, turning the piercing pain in his forehead into a sort of pounding, spreading agony, so Aziraphale had resigned himself to a soothing half-darkness.

It only took Anathema one good look to decide that he needed to see a doctor without delay. Aziraphale, who had hated doctors and hospitals since he’d slipped and broken his shin when he was nine years old, had absolutely no intention of doing anything of the sort until he was one step from his dying bed, but it took some serious cajoling and a few harsh reprimands to persuade Anathema to let go. Not that she looked particularly convinced either way. Aziraphale knew with some sort of dejected resignation that she’d go straight to Madame Tracy the moment she stepped out of the room, and that the two of them would surely end up joining forces to bully him into doing their biddings on the matter. He also knew that Anathema had a soft spot for him, so he resorted to begging for some light breakfast and painkillers, which she was not cruel enough to withhold from him. She was back less than fifteen minutes later with some toast and butter, a teapot, a glass of orange juice and the blessed tablets. Aziraphale had no real appetite, with the way his blood was pounding in his temples, but he ate anyway, washing down the painkillers with the cool orange juice. He went back to his pitiful huddle on his plush armchair until the tablets did their job, and the pain started to dissipate.

Feeling a little more like himself, Aziraphale took a warm shower, shaved and got dressed in his usual attire, taking the time to fix the bow of his tie properly before slipping into a freshly-laundered waistcoat. It felt soothing, the normality of it. Everything smelt faintly of lavender, which paired up nicely with the spicier sandalwood scent of his cologne. Aziraphale rang for Anathema to let her know that he’d freed the room for the daily upkeep and went down to his study. Once there, he tried his best to concentrate on the manuscript he’d been ineffectually pouring over during the last few weeks, until he was forced to give up. He asked Anathema for a cup of Earl Grey and retired to the drawing-room with his daily paper, which he still had to read, but in reality to meditate a little about the night before.

He still wasn’t exactly sure what had happened, but one thing he knew: Crowley and he needed to talk. A real conversation, where they could sit down and discuss things like adults, instead of Aziraphale being pushed in the position of taking the titbits of information Crowley had decided to throw at him like volleys and making the best of them on the spot praying he didn’t take any wrong step along the way. That was not how a balanced relationship was supposed to work, but he was starting to understand that neither Crowley nor he had the faintest idea of what a balanced relationship actually entitled. None of his short dalliances with Companions had prepared Aziraphale for dealing with his own Submissive, and he had only a very vague and progressively more disturbing idea of what Crowley’s past partnerships might have looked like. Aziraphale needed to draw Crowley to one side and have a very serious discussion with him, about what Crowley wanted and how they could take things from there.

If he could ever get a hold of the man, of course.

It turned out that their little bedroom blunder had done nothing to improve the situation, or change it in any way, as far as Crowley was involved. That first day slipped into a heavy evening and then into a troubled night without the slightest sign of Crowley anywhere in the house, although Aziraphale knew for a fact that he was bound to be around (Anathema would’ve told him if he hadn’t, or so Aziraphale hoped). One day became two, then three, four, Crowley’s presence as elusive and intangible as a wisp of smoke.

Aziraphale caught sight of him exactly once, the evening after. Another sudden migraine had made the idea of some light reading risible, and Aziraphale had come out of his drawing-room earlier than usual, with the vague notion of turning in and trying to catch up on some much needed sleep. Crowley had been in the process of climbing the stairs himself, and he’d frozen at the sight of Aziraphale, like a deer in the headlights. He was wearing those sinful clothes of his, Aziraphale’s collar a stark contrast against the pale skin of his chest, nicely framed by the deep cut of his shirt. He’d looked embarrassed, oddly guilty, staring at Aziraphale from over the banister. Then, with drooping shoulders and a grimace full of shame, he’d climbed the stairs and vanished from sight. Aziraphale hadn’t seen him ever since.

Between one nice bout of migraine and the other, Aziraphale had taken to examine their second botched scene over and over, almost obsessively. He didn’t understand how it could’ve gone so wrong so quickly, and he just couldn’t _stop_ worrying about Crowley. His mind kept picking at the badly-healed scar of him over and over and over, making it bleed. Aziraphale hoped he was all right, hoped he’d overcome whatever it was that had caused him to shut down so violently right in the middle of a scene. He hoped he wasn’t suffering, because the thought of Crowley being in pain haunted his nightmares.

He also couldn’t stop thinking about how it felt to have Crowley so close, so vulnerable, so irresistibly pliant in his hands. It satisfied something buried deep inside Aziraphale, a yearning he’d only been half-aware existed until then, a need so sharp and profound and impossibly hungry that feeding it had felt like a blessing. Being offered the trust of something so wild was a heady feeling, like grasping a live wire, but it paled compared to the high of having absolute power over him. Crowley had given over control so beautifully, so completely, that the thought of playing with him for hours, of satisfying his every need, of being the beginning and the end of his world for as long as Crowley would allow it, had been like a drug that only needed to be done once to give an addiction.

Aziraphale hungered, and needed, and _craved_ , like a starving animal in a concrete jungle. He wanted to taste that heady high again, he needed to feel it in his bones, in his blood, in his gut, in the decaying cells of his skin. He craved the feeling of being _necessary_ , the deep satisfaction of taking care of somebody, of making them the sole focus of his attention, burning everything else away. It was like a sickness, like a disease that he couldn’t cure and couldn’t ignore, something that had been lying dormant and barely appeased until a few botched scenes with Crowley had blasted it out of its cage.

It wasn’t even all about Crowley, not exactly. There was something about Crowley that had captured Aziraphale’s attention and refused to let go, that much was true, and each time he managed to be in the same room with the man he couldn’t avoid being in awe of the way they fit against each other, like matching gears, but that wasn’t the sole reason behind his obsession.

The simple act of owning a Submissive was.

Aziraphale had heard about that, of course, and promptly dismissed it, like the nonsense propaganda of a Council that needed to keep all their ducklings in line to maintain their strong hold over absolute power. It sounded like a bunch of hocus pocus, biological drives being unlocked by the simple proximity of a Dominant to his bounded Submissive. Just an excuse to justify a system that, despite having a reason to be in place, was too flawed to be allowed to continue unchallenged. An excuse to justify abuse, to justify obsession.

And yet.

Aziraphale had no idea what Crowley thought, what Crowley _felt_ , but Aziraphale was aware of his presence like a phantom limb, a scent that he couldn’t wash away. Crowley was everywhere, the ghost that haunted his house, whether Aziraphale could see him or not. And the distance pained him, gave new depths to his drop, pounded at his skull like a persistent migraine, plagued his dreams.

It had nothing to do with anything Aziraphale had ever shared with a Companion, it didn’t even come close. Those had been simple transactions, from both parts, pleasant and necessary and fully understood as such. As much as he’d had troubles at first to separate himself from those Submissives, he’d never felt them as his own, never contemplated the idea of taking them to his own house, sharing his space with them.

That made all the difference, as it turned out.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure exactly what it was that had triggered that unbearable need, that feeling of possession, of hunger, if it’d been the act of being given a Submissive or being actively forced to take care of one, but he’d ended up imprinting on Crowley like a newly-hatched duckling on its mother, and he had no clue how to reverse the process. He couldn’t help but think of Crowley as his, his to care for, his to please, his to satisfy, his to own, viscerally, completely, and resisting that urge was slowly driving him insane.

It wasn’t just about relieving his needs. It was about Crowley. Taking another Submissive for a night would not only be useless, it would be repulsive, it would be _wrong_. It would be hollow, devoid of meaning, and ultimately unsatisfying. Aziraphale didn’t need to exert a bit of control to keep his control anymore; he needed to twine himself so tightly around Crowley that neither of them could ever pull free without tearing each other apart to the roots.

And there he had it, why it was so rare for bounded Dominants to go looking for submission elsewhere. Why would anyone choose to get by on the charity of a stranger, when they could get high on the complete willingness of someone that was utterly, bewitchingly in their power? When they could have the absolute control they craved so violently, so viscerally, literally in their bed? The Council could claim as much as they wanted that playing around was distasteful, but the real reason Dominants stuck to their own Submissives had nothing to do with social pressure, and all to do with a simple lack of motivation.

And yet, Aziraphale found the notion profoundly disturbing. If biology was to dictate his behaviour as such, what would become of his free will?

Aziraphale knew for a fact that biological urges could and would not take over his higher brain functions (he’d been respecting Crowley’s need for space, after all, no matter how painful it was), but the idea that he could be driven about like cattle wasn’t a particularly comforting one. And he’d already made the mistake of underestimating such urges, after all. He’d gone without a Submissive for so long that he’d thought he’d be able to ignore Crowley, once he’d be settled in, but he’d apparently been counting his chickens before they hatched. This time, at least, the only one suffering from it was himself. Or so he hoped.

Truth to be told, the situation was quickly becoming unsustainable. Aziraphale hadn’t been able to get a proper night of sleep since Crowley had come back. He kept dreaming of him, of touching him, of holding him, dreams strangely tame for all the sensuous violence they seemed to hold. He’d dream of stroking his thighs, skin warm and soft and alive under his palms, and then seizing the sinewy flesh just under the swell of his arse, watching it bunch up in the narrow space between his fingers, and he’d wake up hard and weeping all over his sheets, garbled groans tumbling from his lips while he rubbed his cock against the mattress. He’d always forced himself to calm down, guilt washing over him at the thought of getting off on Crowley, getting off on caressing someone that found his touch offensive when not terrifying, but it was getting more and more difficult, and his body was screaming in an agony that was getting less and less bearable with every thwarted climax.

Unfortunately, his wretched nights had started to trickle into his days as well. Aziraphale would look at himself in the mirror and see every single year resting upon his shoulders, deep lines carving his face like canyons, and black shadows colouring the tired skin under his eyes. He looked worn-out, the ghost of his past self, and he felt just like that, too. He was half-exhausted and half-obsessed the entire time, his brain too wired-up to be distracted from his pitiful yearning and too tired to concentrate on anything more challenging than putting on some clean clothes.

Not only his body was suffering from this sad state of affairs, but his work was starting to be affected as well. And if Aziraphale could try his best to ignore the first, he would never let the second rest. His work was too important. And yet, he felt too spacey, too hazy to make a decision. He was paralysed, like a hare with its foot caught into a snare, and every time he almost felt like tackling the problem, that horrible migraine took up again, bullying his abused brain into taking a forced rest.

He was feeling so miserable that even asking Anathema about Crowley had become less unbearable. That pummelling migraine didn’t let him enough margins even to feel sorry for himself and his ineptitude as a Dominant, and he’d resigned to rely on his head of staff to be kept in the loop of the comings and goings of his own Submissive.

(Crowley wasn’t his Submissive, he _wasn’t_ , but Aziraphale was too exhausted to keep reminding himself of that. His body and his hinder-brain had made up their own opinion about the entire quandary, and they didn’t seem to care one bit about whether Aziraphale shared it or not.)

According to Anathema, Crowley had been more or less unsuccessfully navigating nearly every single aspect of household maintenance, to his own annoyance and the delight of almost the entire staff. He’d got tired with cleaning in a very short time, barely avoided setting the kitchen on fire in a botched attempt at cooking, and almost come to blows with Mr. Shadwell after one single afternoon spent tagging along with the old gamekeeper in one of his usual rounds. That last piece of intelligence had managed to alarm Aziraphale even in his prostrated state, but Anathema had laughed his worries away. Mr. Shadwell was unpleasant enough to every single member of the staff that no one had been particularly dismayed at seeing somebody put him in his place, and Crowley had left anyway before actual blows could be exchanged. He’d turned a bit subdued after that, though, and started taking long walks in the garden. The staff had been seeing less and less of him, and although Anathema was trying to hide it, probably in deference to Aziraphale’s own frayed state, it was starting to worry her. Aziraphale had felt the whisper of that worry like a blow in the gut, deep and painful and unforgiving, and had almost doubled over with a blinding fit of migraine.

Anathema had already been gone by then, or Aziraphale would’ve never heard the end of it. He knew she was probably right about him seeing a doctor, but it was too big of a decision for him to take, right then and there, and the fact that he didn’t really want to did nothing to help the matter along.

It was one week after their second botched attempt at a scene that Aziraphale saw Crowley again. It was a cold morning in the middle of December, and it was early enough for a wispy fog to trail across the garden like white smoke. Aziraphale was taking his breakfast in the dining room, gazing at the thin layer of hoarfrost coating his unruly lawn instead of reading the paper. His headaches had started early that morning, and he hadn’t even tried to make sense of the printed words, deciding instead to let the wintry beauty of his garden soothe his frayed, aching nerves.

He was about to take a forkful of his cooked beans, when the on-and-off migraine that had been plaguing him since dawn decided to explode like a grenade behind his eyelids. Aziraphale groaned softly under his breath, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead and almost bowling over his plate. It took a long moment for the piercing ache to dissipate, and when Aziraphale looked up, there he was.

Aziraphale’s whole body seemed to react to the sight like it was electrocuted. The migraine pulsed with almost raging violence for a second, before lifting up slowly, turning down to a more sedate ache across his skull. The haziness seemed to dissipate, his mind clearing just enough for him to see, to look, really _look_.

Crowley was standing out of the window, in the cold, with a thick coat to cover his lanky frame and a wool scarf wounded around his neck. He looked tired, worn-out, the blood brought to the surface of his cheeks by the cold the only blotch of colour on a chalky-white skin. The red of his hair looked vaguely obscene in the grey peace of the garden, almost colourless in the shadowy light of a wintry morning. He had thick black gloves to cover his hands, and yet he was shaking, hard enough that Aziraphale could spot it through the window. He was looking inside, and their eyes locked.

It lasted only a moment, but it was enough.

Aziraphale knew, without the shadow of a doubt, that he would find Crowley kneeling on his floor, when he’d turn in that evening.

* * *

Aziraphale spent the rest of the day in a sort of jittery, nerve-wracking anticipation. He could feel the urge of putting his hands on Crowley after an entire week of withdrawal like a hot poker thrust deep into his belly, but the phantom memory of their last scene haunted him. He couldn’t stop thinking about the panicked look in Crowley’s eyes as he pulled away from him, without an explanation, obviously disturbed by something Aziraphale had done, and as much as Aziraphale raked his brain about it, he couldn’t think about one single thing that could’ve possibly upset Crowley that way. Now that his migraine had abated a little, he could think more clearly about the entire affair, and the full weight of his guilt came crashing down on him.

He’d failed Crowley. _Again_. He wasn’t sure how, or why, but he’d managed to ruin two scenes in a row with the one Submissive he wanted to please more than anything, and the thought was enough to choke him in a wave of shame and doubt and apprehension so thick it was almost solid. He could feel it grow into his lungs, into his throat, like a tumour, turning his living cells into concrete, suffocating him like a stranglehold.

It’d been such a simple scene to bring about. Even a young Dom, fresh out of his training and dealing with his very first Companion, would’ve been hard pressed to mess it up. And yet, there came Aziraphale, well in his forties, incapable of safely taking his own Submissive through it without causing him a panic attack. He was indeed a poor excuse for a Dominant. No wonder Crowley had kept away for an entire week, if the alternative was to deal with Aziraphale’s incompetence.

Aziraphale took a deep sigh. He was back in his drawing-room, with a first-edition Thackeray lying in his lap.

There was really no point in following that line of thought. He didn’t know why Crowley had reacted the way he had, and conjecturing was not the right way to tackle the issue. A good Dom would sit their Submissive down and talk about whatever it was that was bothering them; they would _not_ project their own insecurities on their Submissive in a guessing game of what might have gone wrong. Aziraphale torturing himself with doubts and getting himself worked up into a state right before a scene would help exactly no one, even less Crowley. He needed to stay calm and address whatever it was that had unsettled the Submissive to the point of fleeing the room before the scene could come to its natural end, not to stumble upon him as a fretful, useless bundle of nerves incapable of taking the lead. How could he expect Crowley to trust him with control, when Aziraphale felt too nervous to keep a hold even of himself?

No, he had to stop that train of thought at once. He didn’t know what had caused Crowley’s panic, so the best way to go about it was to find out and take it from there. There was no use in wondering whether _he_ was the problem, as much as the answer to that question unsettled him. He’d find out soon, and then make a decision based on facts, not suppositions, or even worse–fears.

He was a bloody Dominant, after all. It would be fitting for him to start behaving like one.

The hours seemed to crawl by, as the misty afternoon slowly declined into a freezing evening. Aziraphale spent most of them staring at the garden outside, the evergreens filling the voids left by the naked brambles of birches and hazels. It was strange to think that the plants were merely sleeping, instead of rising into the gray sky dry and dead.

There was a peculiar quiet to gardens in winter, the sort of quiet that belonged to cemeteries and churchyards. The sort of quiet that spoke of unbreakable silence. It was morbid, in a way, and soothing, in another. He could understand why Crowley felt attracted to it. It suited him.

Aziraphale didn’t bother to move to the dining room for his supper, and asked Anathema to set a place on the small round table next to the loveseat. It was just a hot soup, after all. Aziraphale didn’t feel particularly hungry, for once, and the soup worked wonders to warm him up. He ended the meal with a couple of painkillers. His migraine had behaved quite nicely during the afternoon, but he wanted to make sure he’d be as clear-headed as possible for his rendezvous with Crowley. He wanted to be focused and sharp and bring the Submissive through a blasted scene unscathed, for a change. He could do it. He would take proper care of Crowley, this time.

Organising the bedroom seemed like a good starting point. The ambience was almost as important as the Dom’s countenance in setting the tone, which was why some Dominants owned veritable dungeons in their homes and others only considered familiar and comfortable environments for a scene. Aziraphale had been forced to improvise during the last two scenes, but this time he had the luxury of preparing everything in advance, and he intended to make the best of it. Not that what he had in mind would require much preparation, but still, anything was better than getting kicked into it with very little say and even less time to get into the right headspace. He intended to do things properly, this time. And he would make sure to take them both through the scene if it killed him. Aziraphale might have been a lousy Dom to begin with, but he would not allow a third scene to go awry.

That obviously excluded anything particularly glaring or elaborate. Aziraphale didn’t think that Crowley would appreciate theatricals, and it would completely disrupt the kind of tone Aziraphale had in mind. He wanted Crowley to feel safe, comfortable, not to be pushed right to the edge and kept there tottering. Uncomfortable could be quite a bit of fun, if the Submissive was up to it, but Aziraphale had an inkling that to someone like Crowley it would mean little less than torture. He wanted Crowley to relax and possibly open up a little, not to feel like he had to perform in some way. Besides, uncomfortable wasn’t really Aziraphale’s brand of dominance. He’d dabbled with it in the past, always eager to indulge the Submissive he was with, and he had enjoyed it, but not enough to go looking for it. He liked quiet, soft settings, and Submissives that didn’t need to be pushed to the brink to give. A dull, lazy Dominant, all in all.

He pushed the thought aside, concentrating on the task at hand. Crowley would loathe being coddled, and Aziraphale’s touch had to be very delicate. He suspected that Crowley would do a repeated act from their previous scene, so he asked Anathema to bring up to his room one of the carpets he kept in storage, and turned on the heating to almost an uncomfortable level. He stashed the plush, round carpet Anathema had dug out in the middle of the room, where Crowley had been kneeling the previous time, and rearranged the thick carpet he used to keep his feet from the cold wooden floor in the morning to be exactly where Aziraphale would be sitting. He supervised his efforts with a sense of pride and a spike of something warm and pleasant, something between a spark and a shiver. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make him feel like he’d been doing _something_ to provide Crowley with some measure of comfort. He felt calmer, more stable, and significantly more in control. He had an impact on his surroundings, and could (and would) rearrange and reorganise them to suit the needs of his Submissive best. It was a soothing sort of feeling, and it placated that ragged apprehension, that nervousness that the week apart had fed to a frenzy.

He threw a last parting look at the empty fireplace, before leaving. He could think of very few things more lovely than a scene with Crowley in front of a crackling fire, but he’d decided to keep things simple, and he’d stick to that decision. It was a sound one. Yet, he couldn’t help fantasising about lounging with Crowley on the plush carpet, holding him in his arms after a particularly demanding scene and listening to him breathe, as the fire crackled in the hushed silence.

Every task he could think of successfully completed, Aziraphale went back to his drawing-room, trying to relax in his armchair as the minutes slowly ticked by. He could’ve waited for Crowley in his bedroom, but he didn’t think Crowley would’ve thanked him for it. He’d chosen to go there on his own and get ready in his own time before their last scene, after all. With all the rage and all the pain attached to his biological urges, Aziraphale wouldn’t be surprised if it took Crowley some alone time to find the strength and the will to bow to nature in a way that he probably hated, to force down all the sorrow and shame and resentment enough to admit that he needed that, that he needed the exact thing he loathed with all the anger left in his bones. Aziraphale bearing witness to such a vulnerable moment would be unwelcome, and even worse–an unforgivable intrusion. It would completely upset whatever attempt Aziraphale had made to control their encounter, and possibly pave the way for another ruined scene and an even worse emotional whiplash. No, it was much better waiting him out, letting Crowley set the rhythm and recalibrate the tone of the scene to his own needs, if necessary.

That didn’t mean, of course, that he would let Crowley derail him from _everything_ he’d prepared for the evening. They needed to talk a few things out, whether Crowley wanted or not, and Aziraphale would not let himself be moved on the subject. He was happy to let Crowley take the lead and decide what he needed from Aziraphale, but not to the point of damaging himself. And Aziraphale could not avoid harming him, if he didn’t know which way the tender bits lay.

There was also a very real possibility that he’d misread Crowley’s quick gaze for something completely different, and he’d feel the daftest man on Earth to walk into a toasty bedroom with no sign of human life aside from himself within its walls, but he didn’t think he was so mistaken. That didn’t stop him from staring at the book in his lap without seeing it, wondering and worrying in turn as the evening slowly crawled by.

The antique clock tolled softly, as it struck ten. Aziraphale had been tempted to unwind it, during the worst stages of his migraine, but he was glad he hadn’t. He’d always liked the way antique clocks marked the time, the reliability of their even ticking. He found it soothing.

It was time to go. Aziraphale closed his book, which he’d barely looked at through the entire day, and made his way upstairs. The house was so quiet that he could hear the antique woodwork creaking under his feet as he climbed the stairs and walked down the corridor, and then he was standing in front of his bedroom. The door was closed shut, just like he had left it. He grabbed the handle and pushed it open.

He felt a warm spike of pride, when he saw a naked Crowley kneeling on the thick carpet. The room was nice and toasty, and Crowley’s skin glowed in the soft light. He’d foregone turning on the small electric chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and had chosen instead the two small desk lamps sitting on the night tables flanking the double bed. Aziraphale liked the way they dipped the room in shadows, making the copper of Crowley’s hair shine gently in the dim light. There was a hush to the scene, a velvety stillness that worked well with the sight of Crowley on his knees, hands clasped behind his back and head bowed down. Aziraphale ached to walk to him and lift his chin ever so gently, fingering the narrow space between Crowley’s throat and the black leather of his collar. He ached to frame his Adam’s apple between his index and middle finger and feel him swallow, with the dazed heat of those amber eyes pointed steadily at him. He ached to watch Crowley slip slowly under, eyes turning glazed and unfocused as Aziraphale unbuckled his own belt and gently, gently fed him his cock.

But this was not the time.

(Aziraphale couldn’t help but wonder if it would ever be the time, and felt immediately guilty for that stray thought. It wasn’t about him and his selfish needs. When would he ever learn?)

“Crowley,” Aziraphale called, low and soothing. Having him there, kneeling in front of him, naked and yielding, was working every single instinct he possessed into a frenzy.

 _His_ Submissive. His. His. _His_. Close enough to touch, to hold, so that he’d never get away, he’d never make him suffer the way he had during that interminable week. There were depths inside his brain, the same depths those terrible migraines had come from, that just _screamed_ at him to grab Crowley and make sure they’d never be parted again, to stash him in a cage and never let him out of sight.

Aziraphale ruthlessly squashed those instincts into compliance. He was better than that.

Crowley lifted his head, upon hearing his name. Aziraphale was a little disappointed at how sharp and wary his eyes were. He’d hoped (quite foolishly, he realised that now) to find Crowley in some sort of detached, relaxed state, already drifting from the simple act of waiting for him in such a calming, pleasant environment. It was an old trick, one that very obviously didn’t work on Crowley. He seemed even tenser than usual, almost primed for a fight. As though the care and thought Aziraphale had put in making the room as comfortable as possible for him had been threatening in some way.

Aziraphale did his best to remain unfazed by yet another failure, and smiled gently at the kneeling man.

“Hello, my dear,” he murmured, noticing for the first time that there was a light fuzz on Crowley’s chest. He couldn’t remember seeing it before, and realised quite belatedly that Crowley had probably been waxed on a regular basis while in the Council’s care. Crowley knew how to find whatever he needed in the house, so Aziraphale guessed that if his chest hairs were slowly growing back, it was because Crowley liked them better that way. Aziraphale could appreciate a bit of fuzz, but it hurt to see yet another instance where someone else had utterly overruled Crowley’s preferences.

“Hello,” Crowley answered, clipped and guarded. He was looking at Aziraphale as though he had no idea what would happen next, was terrified to find out, and didn’t want Aziraphale to notice.

It was such a tense and uncomfortable situation that Aziraphale wasn’t exactly sure how to proceed.

“You’re here again,” he said, stilted and awkward. That was _not_ how he’d planned that conversation, and he was struggling to find a good opening to lead them where he wanted them to go.

Crowley rolled his eyes at him.

“Obviously.”

“Hmm.”

Aziraphale decided to sit down. Looming over him was only making Crowley more nervous.

He took his usual place on the bed and looked at the Submissive from there, trying to read his face. There were tense lines around his mouth, crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. Aziraphale looked down at the quick rising and falling of his chest, at the rippling of his flat stomach. The flash of red hairs on his groin was growing into an unkempt tangle, and while Crowley’s grooming habits were absolutely none of his business, Aziraphale indulged for a moment into a shameful fantasy of being allowed to groom Crowley himself. It would be so lovely, gently holding his cock in the palm of his hand while he shaved that fiery mess into a nice, tidy shape.

The silence had probably gone on for too long, because Crowley lost the precarious hold he kept over his patience.

“Well?” he hissed, shooting a vicious glare at him. “Are you going to do something, or are you planning on just staring at me?”

“Shush, darling,” Aziraphale answered. If having a row would help Crowley to shed some of that tension away, Aziraphale was amenable to lend some help. It wasn’t his favourite method of relaxation, but he doubted that anything different would work with Crowley, right then and there. “I’m thinking.”

“You’re _thinking_ ,” Crowley spit back, disparaging and venomous. “I can only imagine which sort of deep thoughts you’re having. Pray tell.”

“I’m thinking about what could’ve possibly spooked you into running away last time, and how to avoid it now.”

Crowley stared at him with wide, almost unblinking eyes, something like shame and dejected terror flitting on his face before he shut everything down.

“ _Spooked_?” he hissed, obviously trying and failing to keep his voice from quivering. “I wasn’t spooked. I’d had enough, ‘s all. I came here looking for a Dom to do his job and I got _that_ , instead, whatever that was. Scratching my head like a cat. Unbelievable. I get now why you couldn’t get even one single Submissive to stick around.”

Crowley’s words stung, even as the obvious deflecting strategy they were, but Aziraphale refused to let himself react to them. He tilted his head.

“Is that so?” he asked, deceptively meek. “Yet, I could tell that you were enjoying that. Whatever that was.”

Aziraphale was more interested in whether Crowley would deny that statement or not, than anything else he could say in answer. He didn’t expect to get so lucky so soon.

“Yes, well,” Crowley grumbled, looking away. “’twas strange.” A moment, long and a bit electric, before he begrudgingly added: “Not... bad. But strange.”

It was a rather huge concession, from Crowley’s part. He was always so careful about expressing his preferences that allowing Aziraphale to know what he liked or disliked felt like an impossible act of trust.

“Not bad,” Aziraphale repeated, feeling the warmth of the words on his tongue, “but strange. Is that why you ran off?”

“I _didn’t_ run off,” Crowley stubbornly denied, “and if you liked it that much you can do it again. I’m here, aren’t I.”

Which was Crowley’s roundabout way to tell him that he’d enjoyed it enough to be willing to try it out again. It was a start, but Aziraphale wasn’t going to let himself be bullied into compliance. He had every intention of talking it out, this time.

“Is there anything else you’d prefer to do?”

Crowley eyed him warily, as though he was trying to gauge where Aziraphale had hidden the steel trap.

“Like what?”

“Anything you want, my dear.” Aziraphale calculated the odds in his mind, trying to decide whether pushing or giving would be the best option for the time being. He decided to push. He needed to know. “You’ve found my approach too bland. Very well. I can accommodate a few requests. What is it that you like?”

The question appeared to shove Crowley into a confused state of anxiety. He seemed taken aback, looking wildly at Aziraphale’s face and then about the room, as though the answer he was obviously searching was lying somewhere around.

“What sort of idiotic question is that?” Crowley snarled, when no suggestion seemed to be forthcoming. “ _You_ are the Dominant! You are supposed to know what to do! Do I have to do your blasted work as well now?”

“I see. Well, then. Is having your face smashed into the carpet while I fuck you from behind something that may sound appealing to you?”

Aziraphale saw the change almost instantaneously. All the colour drained from Crowley’s face, as though someone had opened a dam, and sweat broke onto his forehead. His eyes looked huge and terrified and full of hopeless anger as he fixed them on Aziraphale. A muscle jumped into his jaw, as he clenched his teeth.

“Fine,” Crowley choked out. “Do you want me on all fours? Or you’d like it better to put me there?”

Such a fine line to toe. Aziraphale felt like a funambulist walking a tightrope, one wrong step leading to a long, painful tumble and an inevitable crash.

“On all fours.”

Crowley struggled to swallow, struggled to breathe, then struggled to comply. He was shaking so hard his muscles almost didn’t obey him, but he clenched his teeth until Aziraphale was sure they’d break and slowly shifted into position. His breathing was so shallow it was practically a pant, adrenaline pumping, fear so thick Aziraphale could almost taste it. Crowley seemed one step away from a meltdown, hating himself because of it, and Aziraphale simply couldn’t take it anymore.

He was on his feet so quickly he barely registered the movement, and then he was kneeling by Crowley’s crumpled form. He’d collapsed on his elbows, forehead pressed against his fists.

“Crowley, Crowley, I’m sorry. My darling, I’m so sorry.” He looked around, saw a blanket tidily folded on the armchair and snatched it away, laying it on Crowley’s shaking body. He wanted to wrap him in it, but he wasn’t foolish enough to try to grab him when he was in such a state. “Darling, please. Look at me. Please.”

It took some time, but eventually Crowley lifted his head, gazing at him with open, abject misery through the messy curls of his red hair.

“That’s it, my dear, my darling boy. Look at me. It’s all right. I’m not going to do anything to you that you don’t want me to.” Aziraphale took a deep breath, trying to get his point across, otherwise he’d have pushed Crowley to the edge for naught. “But that’s the reason you need to talk to me. If you tell me that everything is fine, that you’re all right, I might push you into something you don’t want. I might harm you, even if I don’t intend to. Please. You must understand. I don’t want to hurt you, Crowley, so please, _please_ , don’t enable me to do just so through sheer ignorance.”

“A broken thing,” Crowley hissed, slowly straightening up, staring at him with baleful eyes. “‘Poor Aziraphale, he’s a quirky one but he doesn’t deserve _that_. Are you sure that’s a good idea, Gabriel? There must be some Submissive in a better shape left. Maybe not one of the young ones, granted, they’re a bit too impressionable to let Aziraphale handle them, but surely there must be something better than a ruined Submissive not even fit to look after a dying Dominant pissing in their bed.’ Guess you’re shite out of luck, _Master_.”

Aziraphale was beyond horrified. Dominants talking like that about a Submissive were bad enough, but letting Crowley _listen_ , as though he was dumb and simple, a pet that couldn’t even understand them, was more than thoughtless, more than cruel. It was unthinkable.

He could do nothing but stare at Crowley for a long time, speechless. There were no words for that.

“My dear, my darling,” he whispered eventually, when the silence had grown impossible to tolerate. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah. Right.”

Crowley tried to get up, and Aziraphale let him. He thought the Submissive was going to run off again, and was thinking about whether he should let him or not, but Crowley merely sat on the carpet, curling up in his blanket, the bone-deep shivers racking his frame abating ever so slowly. It was such a show of astonishing trust, after what had happened, that Aziraphale could only be humbled by it.

There was so much there to tackle, and so little leeway. Crowley was staying, for now, but Aziraphale was aware that one single wrong word would send him storming out of the room.

“You don’t have to enjoy everything that’s done to you,” Aziraphale tried, a bit tentatively, but refusing to give up. “That doesn’t mean that you’re broken, or that you need to be fixed. There are things I don’t enjoy, too.”

“I know,” Crowley said, eyes hard, and yet there was a promising softness into the tense line of his mouth, almost like the hint of a future giving. “You’re an inferior Dominant, after all. It stands to reason that you’d be incapable of enjoying what a normal Dominant does.”

Aziraphale clenched his teeth. He knew why Crowley was lashing out, out of fear, out of anger, out of pain, but it still hurt, hearing every single word that had been plaguing him for most of his life coming out of his mouth. It hurt like a knife wound.

“That’s the most popular assumption, yes,” he forced himself to spit out, struggling to keep his voice even. “Is the Council’s opinion so worthy of your consideration that you don’t feel the need to make up your own mind about it? Or do you consider the Council’s judgment so flawless that you’d believe every word without seeing for yourself?” Aziraphale’s voice had turned a bit hard, but he couldn’t stop. “Their opinion about you is so impeccable, after all. Hard to think they could be mistaken about me.”

Crowley’s mouth was a thin line, as they stared at each other in silence. Aziraphale had the very specific feeling that he was being seized up, measured, in a way. That Crowley was deciding how much he could be trusted, if he could be trusted at all. He held Crowley’s stare for what felt like hours, watching the subtle play of emotions in his expressive eyes, until Crowley looked away.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” he grumbled, still unbalanced and sounding quite angry about the entire affair. “Why are you doing this? It’s not what I want.”

Aziraphale sighed. It wasn’t much of a concession, but he suspected that it was all the ground he was going to get.

“I’m trying to help you,” he answered, so very gently.

Crowley gestured vaguely in his own direction, anger and shame and self-loathing flitting on his expressive features.

“How is _this_ helping?” he hissed, but he was softening, and Aziraphale knew it. They both knew it.

“Let’s put it this way,” Aziraphale countered. “You tried the Council’s way, and you weren’t very impressed with it. Would it be so terrible a thing to try mine?”

Aziraphale didn’t look away, didn’t breathe, didn’t even blink as Crowley rolled the words into his mind and considered his offer. Relief exploded like a grenade into his chest, as he saw him relent, just a little bit, and he realised that Crowley had been listening, and Aziraphale hadn’t been just screaming into the void. Crowley had been listening, and Aziraphale’s words had reached him.

“...perhaps,” Crowley mumbled. It wasn’t a particularly encouraging start, but it was better than what Aziraphale had thought he was going to get. “So, what now?”

“Now, you tell me what had spooked you last time,” Aziraphale answered, as kindly as he knew how. “Let’s start with that.”

Crowley looked at him with a stubborn, cantankerous scowl for a moment, and Aziraphale remembered to breathe only when his expression finally softened into something more resigned than cross.

“All right.” A sharp, quick glance. “You might want to sit down. Kneeling is terrible on the knees, after a while. And Doms are never particularly nimble to begin with.”

Aziraphale tried to stifle a chuckle as he complied, and failed abysmally. That was a nice way of saying that he was way too old to be kneeling on hard wooden floors, and he was terribly moved by that tiny proof that Crowley cared, in his own way. He didn’t think that starting to sniffle would particularly benefit his already crumbling Dominant image, so he tried to hold himself together.

“All right,” Aziraphale said, as he brushed invisible lint off his waistcoat. “All settled, now.”

Crowley eyed him a bit suspiciously still, but he seemed willing enough at least to try. He took a deep breath and then promptly looked away.

“I think... I think I went into subspace, last time,” he grumbled, every word quite unwillingly dragged out of his mouth. “I overreacted.”

“You think?” Aziraphale repeated, very cautiously, picking at the heart of the problem. He got a sharp look for his trouble.

“Yes,” Crowley answered, very clearly, almost daringly. “I’m not sure. I-I don’t think I’d ever experienced it before. Well, maybe once, but it was such a long time ago, I don’t even think... it was that. Properly. It was very... confusing.”

Aziraphale struggled against his need to know more, to know everything there was to know about this man, this Submissive ( _his_ Submissive), but he knew when to press and when to let go. He let go.

“I was given to understand that subspace is a quite pleasurable state of mind, for a Submissive,” Aziraphale answered, trying to go for neutral and realising he’d come across as patronising at Crowley’s glare. “I mean, well, I... I meant to say, if that’s a good thing, why did you panic?”

“I didn’t _panic_ ,” Crowley was quick to correct him, “I was just a bit spooked. You said so yourself.”

“Yes, I did,” Aziraphale confirmed, holding up his hands in a pacifying gesture. Crowley didn’t seem particularly impressed, but he let him get away with it.

“Well. Didn’t seem that nice, ‘s all.”

“It didn’t?”

Crowley rolled his eyes at him.

“I _told_ you,” he grumbled, almost unwillingly, “I need control. How would _losing_ control help me in any way?”

“That’s the irony of it,” Aziraphale gently pointed out. “Submissives need to give up control in order to obtain control, while Dominants need to exert control to maintain control. That’s why one struggles without the other. That’s why we can’t be left to our own devices.”

Crowley was staring at him with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“So, you’re telling me that control is not a given to Dominants, and that they need a scene with a Submissive in order to keep it? Is that what you’re saying?”

Aziraphale shrugged.

“More or less. Yes.”

There was something like shock in Crowley’s eyes, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. He looked almost _scandalised_ , to Aziraphale’s absolute delight.

“That’s not... No one ever told me that.”

“That I would need you as much as you would need me?” Aziraphale elaborated. “Yes. That seems to be the case.”

Crowley tilted his head, mind churning over that new information. Aziraphale could only hope it would show him they stood on equal ground, and that Aziraphale would never take what Crowley wasn’t willing to give. It was a mutual exchange–anything else would be meaningless. It saddened Aziraphale the notion that so many Dominants didn’t understand it. It saddened him even more to know how difficult life had to be for Submissives with such Dominants, and how unjustly they were treated. He’d always had a sort of academic awareness of it, but Crowley wasn’t a vague theoretical notion, he was there, and Aziraphale couldn’t be blind to it. He suspected that the way Crowley had crumbled at the thought of being roughly handled would come haunting his nightmares for a very, very long time.

Crowley’s voice startled him out of his reverie.

“All right,” he said simply.

Aziraphale frowned in confusion.

“All right?”

“Yes. Let’s try again.” Crowley stopped, looking vaguely flustered, as though he wasn’t used to expressing a preference, and found the concept a bit titillating. “What we did last time. We could have another go at it. If you want. I... I wouldn’t be opposed.”

Aziraphale blinked slowly, almost giddy with the trust he’d been given, powerful and sizzling and deeply moving. It almost eclipsed even the gnawing hunger that had opened up into the pit of his stomach like a gaping mouth at the prospect of touching Crowley again, deep and dark and bottomless. Almost, but not quite.

“As you wish, my dear boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I STILL haven’t written the bloody scene that was supposed to be in chapter three. I’m slowly turning into a parody of myself.  
> Also, I’m sorry to end the chapter right before the smutty bit, but it was either that or slapping a 14k or so monster on your screens, so there you have it. Your writer being evil and withholding the filth. I’ll pay you back with interests the next time <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, lovely people!  
> I’m sorry it took me a bit longer to update, this time, but I truly hope this chapter will be worth the wait and make up for the evil cliffhanger.  
> A couple of things before we start!  
> First of all, I want to thank the whole lot of you for the volleys of love you’ve been throwing my way. The response to this story has been _incredible_ , something I would’ve never thought it would happen even in my wildest dreams, and I wish to thank from the bottom of my heart every single one of you who left a comment, a kudos, or even _recommended_ this silly piece of fiction to other people. It’s a mind-blowing concept for me, and I cannot even start to thank you enough for this. Thank you, thank you, thank you. And please forgive me if sometimes it takes me a bit longer than usual to answer your comments. Please know that I read and absolutely treasure every single one of them. They push me forward when writing becomes a bit difficult, as of late <3  
> Secondly, a waterfall of love and gratitude once again to [Kazeetie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kazeetie/pseuds/Kazeetie), who has been so incredibly kind to beta for me chapters 1 to 4, as well as the chapter you are about to read. I cannot even begin to thank her properly <3  
> I hope you like the chapter!

There was a hush to the room, after that last exchange, that Aziraphale didn’t know exactly how to break. He had permission to begin, but Crowley still seemed vaguely uncomfortable, huddled up in his blanket and staring at the floor. It wasn’t a good starting point for a scene, and Aziraphale was acutely aware of it. Yet, he wasn’t sure whether introducing new elements would help Crowley or disrupt that fragile peace they’d managed to cobble up.

Before he could think better of it, Aziraphale reached out, brushing Crowley’s cheek with the back of his hand. Crowley reacted as though he’d been electrocuted. He snapped his head out of range, an instinctive reaction from being touched when he hadn’t expected it, when his defences were low, and stared at Aziraphale for a moment with huge, unblinking eyes. Then, something seemed to give in his face, and slowly, deliberately, Crowley bowed his head to nudge his cheek against Aziraphale’s still stretched-out fingers. Aziraphale stroked his knuckles against the pointy chin, the sharp jaw, the delicate curl of his earlobe. He thumbed the elegant arch of Crowley’s cheekbone, and tenderly cupped his cheek in the palm of his hand. Crowley’s eyes never wavered, never shifted, boring holes in Aziraphale’s even as his lids drooped, lashes brushing the apples of his cheeks.

There was something in Aziraphale that _sang_ , at having Crowley so close. Something that came alive with a spark, a bushfire spreading from the tingly skin of his palm to his chest, his head, his limbs, every nerve group lighting up in a blaze. Aziraphale almost felt lightheaded with the intoxicating pull of it, his atrocious need muted, his devouring hunger collapsed into a flicker. He had what he craved, what he yearned for, close and pliant and satisfied, and Aziraphale breathed deeply into the exhilarating freedom from the clamouring ache that his unfulfilled needs had burrowed into his very skull. There was no pain anymore, no migraines, no misplaced anxiety, no maddening itches that he couldn’t scratch. Just a feeling of wondrous, almost intolerable peace, an absolute silence, as though the world had shrunk down to that very house, that very room, where Crowley was leaning into the palm of his hand and slowly closing his eyes.

“My darling boy, how precious you are,” Aziraphale whispered, using his other hand to push strands of copper hair off his face. Crowley breathed, deeply, slowly, and the steady rush of his exhale brushed the sensitive skin of Aziraphale’s wrist. Aziraphale felt a shiver trickle down his spine. It was atrociously intimate.

The pressure against Aziraphale’s palm grew, as Crowley leaned more onto it. The weight of his head was sweet, and Aziraphale held it without effort, as he caressed Crowley’s other cheek with his free hand. He traced the thick bow of his brow, the slope of his nose. He debated whether to touch his lips, but it would’ve been too intimate. He thumbed the black shape of his tattoo, dipped his fingers into a wave of red hair.

“Will you tell me when you’re ready?” Aziraphale asked, low and soothing. Crowley’s mouth was slack, his body slowly relaxing. His cheek was hard against Aziraphale’s palm, his skin soft. His hair was silky between Aziraphale’s fingers.

It took Crowley a few attempts to stitch together his answer, but when he finally got his mouth and throat under control again, his tone made Aziraphale chuckle softly under his breath.

“I’m ready whenever you are,” Crowley mumbled, rolling his cheek a little in Aziraphale’s palm and rubbing his lips against the heel of his hand. Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat at the touch, and he was suddenly aware of how very warm the room was, and how many layers of clothing he was wearing.

Aziraphale was loath to break the contact, but if Crowley wanted to try their previous scene again, that was what Aziraphale would give him. He pulled away as slowly and gently as he knew how, mourning the loss of Crowley’s warm skin like a severed limb. He felt something trickle down his spine like a shiver, as Crowley leant forward and chased for a moment the retreating heat of his hands. Then he opened his eyes, and fixed on Aziraphale a lazy, almost drugged gaze. He looked a bit dazed already, as though he’d started to slip under the moment his body had finally relaxed enough to let him.

Climbing up on his feet, instead of wrapping himself around Crowley and never letting go, felt like an epic struggle. But up Aziraphale went, towering over Crowley from above. Being loomed over, apparently, was threatening enough to jolt Crowley out of his hazy state, and he blinked up at Aziraphale with a lot more awareness than he would have liked. Aziraphale considered touching him again, but thought better of it. The last thing he wanted was to spook Crowley, from his disadvantaged position, into shrinking away.

Aziraphale took a deep breath, steadying himself. Then he walked to the bed and sat on top of it, making a show of spreading his legs to fit Crowley between them. He could feel Crowley’s eyes lingering on him, on his crotch, his body, eventually slipping up to his face. There was a contemplative sort of look on his angular face, as though Crowley was considering something. Aziraphale didn’t want to give him too much time to think, right then and there, to use as a shield between himself and their scene.

“Take the blanket off, my dear,” Aziraphale ordered, making it sound like a suggestion. “The room should be warm enough.”

He stressed his point by undoing his bowtie and slowly unbuttoning his waistcoat. The room _was_ warm, after all, almost uncomfortably so for a completely dressed person, and Aziraphale would’ve rather ended the evening in clothes that were not drenched in sweat.

(He could think of course of other occasions where he wouldn’t probably mind that as much, but they had very little to do with the situation at hand.)

Crowley shrugged off the blanket with an almost distracted roll of his shoulders, his attention caught by Aziraphale slipping out of his waistcoat. Aziraphale was watching him so closely that he saw the way his skin broke into goosebumps at the sudden lick of cold air, and couldn’t help but stare with open hunger at the dark shape of his pebbled nipples. Crowley’s Adam’s apple bobbed under the tense skin of his throat, as he placed his hands a little awkwardly over his thighs. His soft cock was lying in the dip between his leg, pink and lovely, and Aziraphale ached with the need to reach out and take it in his hand, thumbing the foreskin away from the tip to expose the delicate indenture on the spongy head.

“You’re doing so well, my darling boy,” Aziraphale purred, taking in with deep satisfaction the way Crowley shuddered at the praise, like a Pavlovian reaction. He filed it carefully in the slowly growing folder of things that Crowley liked, as he unbuttoned the cuff of his right sleeve and started to roll it up. He kept the movements deliberately sedated, measured. Crowley seemed to follow every gesture with rapt, vaguely dazed attention.

It was flattering, having the interested if still a bit wary eyes of a man so attractive entirely focused on him. Aziraphale couldn’t help but smirk a little to himself, as he unbuttoned his left cuff and slowly rolled up the other sleeve as well.

Once that was settled, Aziraphale gently patted his thigh.

“Come here, sweetheart.”

That seemed enough to bring Crowley around, at least a little.

“Sweetheart?” he grumbled, even as he pulled himself up on all fours and started to crawl towards Aziraphale. Strands of red hair slid slowly over the ridges of his shoulders, brushing the hollow of his throat.

“You don’t like it?” Aziraphale hummed, a little distractedly. He was too focused on the sinuous ripple of Crowley’s spine to give anything else much attention. “Or do you dislike pet names as a rule?”

There was something mesmerizing in the way Crowley slithered towards the bed, in the subtle play of muscles under his silky skin. It made Aziraphale hunger, _crave_. Not the same craving that had been plaguing him while Crowley had been apart from him, that deep-seated, screaming need that wouldn’t let him sleep, but a craving nonetheless. He swallowed thickly, as he caught sight of Crowley’s lovely cock swinging gently between his wiry thighs.

“Some are better than others,” Crowley sniffed in reply. He seemed more at ease this time, the slow crawl less humiliated and more pointed. He still wouldn’t look at Aziraphale, gaze stubbornly trained onto the wooden floor instead, but Aziraphale would take anything Crowley was willing to give.

“Hmm. I guess that means you’re not completely adverse to dear and darling, then.”

“They’re tolerable.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Aziraphale chuckled, as Crowley slipped sinuously between his legs. Aziraphale had made sure to sit with his feet bracketing the plush carpet he’d set by the side of the bed for that exact purpose, and felt a deep-seated spike of satisfaction at the sight of Crowley kneeling on it, the thick padding sheltering his knees from the cold hard wood. His naked body was a work of art, from above–all tense, hard lines, betraying its inner fragility like brittle iron against supple copper.

Crowley paused for a short, awkward moment, his attention quite obviously focused on Aziraphale’s half-hard cock straining his fly, but then he looked away, clasping his hands behind his back and pressing his face against Aziraphale’s thigh.

“Like this, yes?” Crowley mumbled, unable to stifle a shiver completely as Aziraphale placed his hand between his shoulder blades. The skin was delicate, there, a thin layer pulled tightly over the play of sinews and muscles and bones. And it was warm, deliciously so. Aziraphale could almost feel the blood swirling under it, the latticework of capillaries over the bumps of Crowley’s spine.

“Like this,” Aziraphale murmured, slipping his hand under the copper waves of Crowley’s hair to finger the collar and eventually cup the back of his neck. Crowley let out a soft exhale at the touch, something like a breathy _oh_ , and then the room was once again dipped in silence.

Time seemed to unravel, stretching on and on, as they enjoyed the quiet and the proximity in the warm, shadowy nest of Aziraphale’s room. It was such a relaxed, comfortable state that Aziraphale as well started to drift, basking in that sense of security, of comfort, that the physical contact ignited under his skin. He realised that he’d closed his eyes, at some point, and began to trace lazy circles with his thumb against the side of Crowley’s neck, when he felt a tiny shiver ripple the taut skin under his palm.

Aziraphale opened his eyes slowly, taking the new development in. He allowed his touch to turn a bit heavier, a bit more pointed, pushing his fingers through Crowley’s hair and scratching at the scalp.

The sigh he got for his trouble was barely a whisper of a breath, but unmistakable. Aziraphale began to play with Crowley’s hair, petting it tenderly at times, then scratching at the scalp, digging his thumb in the tense muscles of his nape just beneath the collar. Crowley shuddered when Aziraphale hit a particularly sensitive spot, and groaned softly when Aziraphale grabbed a handful of red curls and pulled gently at the roots.

The moment felt suspended, somehow, tender and hushed. Aziraphale allowed himself to revel in the proximity, to quench the impossible throes of his hunger with the simple touch of Crowley’s skin against his palm. The distance had been so painful, so difficult to endure. Having Crowley so close, so relaxed, so wonderfully pliant lifted some of that unendurable weight from his shoulders, soothed the gnarled ache of his twisted nerves. It felt right, sitting there in the dim lights, with Crowley kneeling quietly between his splayed knees. It felt almost as though the entire world had been out of axis for as long as he could remember, and it was slowly but surely shifting into place. It felt as though mismatched gears had finally slotted together, allowing some unknown ponderous machine to stop creaking and struggling its way forward and to run smoothly on oiled axles, instead.

It felt perfect. And it felt as though it didn’t matter how long Crowley would stay, how much leeway he’d give–Aziraphale would never, ever have enough. Even as he stroked Crowley’s hair, his entire attention focused on reading Crowley’s reactions and repeating whatever Crowley seemed to find more pleasurable, he wanted nothing more than to grab fistfuls of him and hold on until his own flesh melted off his bones.

There was a rising, shuddering quality to Crowley’s soft breaths, now. It clashed a little with how relaxed, how utterly boneless he felt under Aziraphale’s hands, his shoulders drooping, his muscles unlocked. His face was still pressed against Aziraphale’s thigh, a light and welcomed weight, but Crowley’s head was shifting minutely under his hand now. Aziraphale frowned a little, his battered instincts reading it as an attempt to escape and screaming at him to get a good grab on Crowley’s hair before he could get away, but he kept his touch gentle, as he sunk his fingers in the loose copper strands and petted them tenderly.

It didn’t take Aziraphale long to realise what Crowley was doing. It had started as a minute shift, a subtle pressure, but as Aziraphale’s fingers dug a bit harder into his scalp, Crowley openly started to rub his face against Aziraphale’s trousers. It was a slow, almost unwilling shift, but it was undeniable, it was raw and full of unquenched need, and it hit Aziraphale low, it hit him deep. He grabbed a handful of copper hair and pulled, gently, carefully, but firmly. The touch punched a groan out of Crowley’s throat, loud and reluctant and quivering, and Aziraphale felt his own cock twitch at the undeniable pleading note ringing in his voice.

Aziraphale had been half-hard during the entire time, but that sound was enough to have him aching and straining against his fly, his ears buzzing with the sudden rush of blood. He swallowed thickly, fisting a handful of linen with the hand planted on the bed to keep himself from doing something rash, something stupid, like pulling Crowley into his lap and pleasuring him until he was too wrung out and sensitive to continue, and then continue anyway. He wondered if Crowley would like that, being brought to the edge of oversensitivity and then pushed right onto the other side. He wondered if anyone had ever done that to him. A secret, hungry side of him hoped they hadn’t.

Aziraphale took a deep, steady breath. Crowley had started to squirm between his legs, the delicate skin of his nape breaking in goosebumps under Aziraphale’s palm. The tight control he’d tried to impose over himself was shattering, and he was rubbing his face against Aziraphale’s trousers with something dangerously close to desperation. Aziraphale watched in stunned awe, as tiny shudders rippled the freckled skin of his shoulders like waves.

“Are you all right, my dear?” Aziraphale murmured, so very gently. They were treading dangerous waters, and he knew that one misstep would have Crowley bolt out of reach.

Crowley groaned, deep and shuddering.

“I... I need...” he keened, voice muffled by Aziraphale’s thigh. He tried again, and stopped, when only a string of vowels dribbled out of his mouth. Aziraphale pushed a strand of copper hair behind his ear, and saw how red the skin was on the delicate shell, the desperate blush washing down his cheek.

Crowley took a shallow, gasping breath.

“ _Please_.”

The pleading went straight to Aziraphale’s cock, heady and impossibly good. The thought that Crowley could want something bad enough to beg for it, and that was something that Aziraphale could give him, _would_ give him, was thrilling enough that his own skin broke in goosebumps, tingling and overly sensitive.

Aziraphale licked his lips, his pent-up hunger rearing its ugly head, roaring in his blood. He stroked Crowley’s hair, digging his fingers in the sweet dip just under his skull. Crowley mumbled at the pressure.

“My darling,” Aziraphale purred, cupping Crowley’s nape in the palm of his hand, steady and possessive. “Are you hard? Do you need to come?”

Crowley squirmed, instinctively trying to get away from Aziraphale’s voice, to avoid answering. Aziraphale tightened his grasp, refusing to let him.

“ _Yes_ ,” Crowley eventually answered, a hiss between clenched teeth. “ _Please_.”

It cost him saying as much, it was plain to see. Aziraphale fully intended to change that, but now was not the time. He had other matters to attend to, at that specific moment.

“Of course, my dear,” he murmured, low and soothing. “Relax. I’ll take care of you.”

His words, his tone, seemed to do the trick. Crowley settled some between his thighs, even as shivers kept rippling the tense skin of his shoulders, and he couldn’t seem to be able to stop rubbing his face against Aziraphale’s trousers. Aziraphale kept stroking his hair, as he thought about the best way to give Crowley what he needed. There were so many possibilities, and so many ways that could go so very wrong. Crowley was in a particularly vulnerable spot, right then, and a misstep would send him hurtling away. Aziraphale knew that the same way he knew the texture of his own skin. He needed to satisfy both Crowley and his raging need to cater to him without overwhelming him, scratching with a careless touch those raw places that Crowley couldn’t even bear to look at long enough to warn Aziraphale of where the traps lay.

It was tricky, but Aziraphale was a smarter man than Gabriel and the Council had ever given him credit for. And, right then and there, he was very, very _driven_.

Aziraphale brushed a hand down Crowley’s back, shivers breaking in his wake.

“Spread your knees, my darling,” Aziraphale crooned, hand splayed between Crowley’s shoulder blades.

Crowley’s breath hitched in the inhale, and stuttered noisily as Crowley huffed it out of his mouth in a choked sigh, but he complied. Aziraphale felt him shift under his hand, a tense, shuddering mess, revved up to uncomfortable highs by that unbearable need and fighting every inch of the way with a stubborn, angry determination. Aziraphale’s own skin ached to soothe that anger, until Crowley would accept pleasure the same way he accepted breathing, like a need that had to and _would_ be fulfilled.

“What a wonderful, lovely creature you are,” Aziraphale whispered, blood thrumming as Crowley gasped softly at the praise.

Aziraphale applied some pressure with the hand splayed against Crowley’s back, pushing him forward. It took Crowley a moment to take the hint, but then he was moving, shuffling a bit clumsily on the thick carpet until his thighs were bracketing Aziraphale’s leg. His face had shifted, moving from the inner side of Aziraphale’s thigh to the top. It was a rather awkward, crumpled position to maintain, but Crowley seemed disinclined to lift his head from its hiding place against Aziraphale’s trousers, and Aziraphale wasn’t going to force the issue. If that made Crowley feel safe, Aziraphale surely wasn’t going to take it away from him.

“Just like that, my darling,” Aziraphale cooed, carefully shifting his foot a bit until he felt the pressure of Crowley’s hard cock against his calf. “Take what you need.”

For a split second, it seemed like the moment was about to shatter. Crowley stilled, stiff and guarded and on the brink of running off like a spooked horse, and Aziraphale wondered whether he’d pushed him too far too soon, whether his approach had once again been more harmful than helpful. Then Crowley broke into a keen–a shuddering, wounded sound. His stance shattered, hands flailing as they unclasped from behind his back, until they found purchase on Aziraphale’s leg. His fingers dug into the corduroy of Aziraphale’s trousers until they sunk into flesh, and Crowley’s hips snapped into a thrust as he rubbed his hard cock against Aziraphale’s calf.

Aziraphale did his best to hide the hitch of his shuddering breath, but he needn’t have bothered. The first spike of pleasure had Crowley groaning so deep, so loud, that very little else could’ve been heard in the room–even less the thundering of Aziraphale’s heart, as Crowley’s raw voice vibrated into his very bones. That first thrust turned into two, then three, four, until Crowley was humping Aziraphale’s calf in a frenzy, muscles clenching beautifully in his wiry arms, his shoulders, his back, his arse. He was clutching Aziraphale’s leg with enough strength to hurt, fingers digging into flesh and muscles as deep and hard as claws, but Aziraphale was barely aware of anything that wasn’t the gorgeous creature currently using his body to pleasure himself. He was distantly aware of his own hard cock, of his aching balls, but they were a faded reminder, easily overcome by the rainstorm of keening, desperate groans that tumbled from Crowley’s lips like an April shower.

Aziraphale’s hand moved almost of its own volition to Crowley’s hair, taking a proprietary handful of it, pulling it gently. Crowley wailed, hips stuttering in their frantic thrusting, forehead thumping against Aziraphale’s thigh before Crowley, with a grumbling growl, rubbed his face against the corduroy one last time and opened his mouth to bite down. Aziraphale gasped at the muted feeling of Crowley’s teeth, hand twitching and pulling his hair harder for a moment, before seizing Crowley’s nape in his palm and holding him fast against his thigh.

“That’s it, my dear boy,” Aziraphale whispered, his other hand twisting in the coverlet, aching to do something, to wrap itself around Crowley’s cock instead of uselessly lying there. Aziraphale ruthlessly squashed the instinct, fingers digging in the sides of Crowley’s neck just above the collar as Crowley gnawed on his trousers, nipping at the skin underneath. “My sweet darling. You’re aching for it, aren’t you? When was the last time that someone has taken care of you?”

Crowley was moaning, his wails muffled by the mouthful of trousers he’d shoved between his teeth. His face was covered by his hair, his back rippled in shivers. Aziraphale knew that he should probably shut up, lest an ill-conceived word would ruin it all, but he was hard, almost dizzy with the heady high of giving Crowley pleasure, of taking care of him, and he couldn’t control himself, he couldn’t stop. It was too much, and he wanted it too much.

“My darling Crowley,” he purred, and the name seemed to roll off his tongue like mead, like honey, “you’re doing so well. Are you close? Will you come for me?”

Crowley quivered, fingers and teeth digging painfully into Aziraphale’s giving flesh as his hips snapped once, twice. Then Crowley groaned, deep, low, something that sounded almost like it’d been dragged kicking and screaming from his chest, and stilled, tense like a bow about to snap in half. His hips were still stuttering, instinctively shoving his cock into Aziraphale’s calf to chase the last shards of pleasure, but soon his body was relaxing, his muscles unclenching. Aziraphale inhaled, a shallow, quivering thing, and then gently stroked Crowley’s shuddering shoulders with an unsteady hand.

That had been _lovely_. He almost said as such, but he caught himself in time. He didn’t know what Crowley would be willing to take, now that the scene had reached its natural conclusion, and didn’t want to push his luck. He wanted Crowley to stay where he was as long as he could have him, and didn’t want to do anything to endanger that soft, fragile bliss. He could feel Crowley’s come seeping into his trousers, wet and rapidly cooling, and his own cock pushing against his fly, but none of those concerns were more pressing than the man kneeling between his legs.

Aziraphale had expected the moment to be cut short soon, but that didn’t stop a disappointed sigh to escape his lips when he felt Crowley move. He realised that Crowley had heard him and reacted to the sound only when he felt him tense under his hand, mouth pressed hard against the wet patch he’d made on Aziraphale’s thigh. Aziraphale wasn’t sure about the best way to go forward, so he stroked Crowley’s hair, a bit tentatively, and was rewarded with a quick glance of amber eyes when Crowley lifted his head. His face was red with exertion and what looked like a bit of embarrassment. Aziraphale was about to dispel any reason for such a silly sentiment, when Crowley, slowly and awkwardly and rather stiltedly, shifted in the cage of Aziraphale’s legs and pressed a hesitant hand against his straining cock.

The touch hit Aziraphale like a blow. He’d been caught unprepared, and for a moment all he could do was push into it, the pressure divine against his aching flesh. His grasp on Crowley’s hair tightened, but before he could do something stupid like guiding that lovely mouth onto his cock, Aziraphale drew him back. Crowley inhaled sharply at the pull on his scalp, but stilled, unfocused eyes climbing up to Aziraphale’s face.

Aziraphale smiled at him, softly, gently. Then he let go of the bedding and took Crowley’s hand off his crotch, while his grasp on Crowley’s hair dwindled, turning soothing instead of possessive.

“No,” he said, ever so gently.

Crowley blinked, dazed and a bit confused, but didn’t take his hand back.

“No?”

“No.”

Crowley seemed to find the concept incomprehensible. He looked down at Aziraphale’s straining cock, then back up to his face. He was still a bit out of it, but he was coming around fast. Too fast, Aziraphale thought, with a small frown.

Crowley seemed to take his frown the wrong way, in his slightly altered state, and flinched like he’d been hit.

“Why not?” he asked, with something almost wounded in his voice.

Aziraphale untangled his fingers from Crowley’s hair, clasping both hands around Crowley’s and bringing it up to his lips. The gentle kiss against his knuckles seemed to startle Crowley enough to take his hand away. Aziraphale sighed, feeling the absence of touch like a bone-deep ache.

“Because you’re not my Submissive.”

Aziraphale felt the harshness of the sentence the moment it left his mouth, but it was true, and it needed to be said. _He_ needed to hear it, before he forgot that he had no claim over this man, and servicing him once didn’t make Crowley his in any meaning of the word.

Crowley recoiled from him almost as if he’d been slapped. He was looking up at Aziraphale with amber eyes that were getting harder and sharper by the minute, cheeks blushing red and mouth set into a thin line. He seemed angry, and embarrassed. Rather relieved, too, and while Aziraphale knew that he was grasping for heartache, he couldn’t help but notice that Crowley looked vaguely disappointed at the same time.

“I see.”

He seemed quite put out by Aziraphale’s decision, even a bit offended. Aziraphale couldn’t have that.

“I promised I wouldn’t ask any service of you, my dear. You do remember that, don’t you?”

Crowley was staring at him with narrowed eyes, now, jarringly in the present. His hands were clasped in his lap, covering the soft, delectable shape of his cock, and his shoulders were a tense, stiff line. He was holding himself so rigidly that Aziraphale felt his own muscles ache in sympathy.

“What was this, then? Some sort of pitiful handout to the needy, useless Submissive?”

There was a barely-restrained rage in Crowley’s voice, something growling and screeching just behind the sharp line of his teeth. He was one step away from stomping off, and Aziraphale already knew how well _that_ would play out. Crowley would storm out of the door in a fury, make both of them go through another miserable week, then hate himself when his own brain chemistry would force him back to Aziraphale’s room on his knees. Aziraphale was already exhausted before Crowley had even started. And he knew, he just knew that he couldn’t take again the thought of Crowley alone and dropping, without knowing if he was all right. Aziraphale would worry himself to the bone, again, and he couldn’t take another week like that. He _wouldn’t_.

“Do you really think that I didn’t need that as much as you did?” Aziraphale asked, tilting his head. He sighed, deeply and tiredly, at Crowley’s disbelieving glare. “Just because I didn’t reach climax, it doesn’t mean that what happened between us was in any way less satisfying for me than it was for you.”

It was probably a bit too much, from the way Crowley’s brows reached his hairline, but Aziraphale wasn’t going to back down. He was already straddling a very thin line, as far as Crowley and his riotous instincts were involved, and he knew, he knew with absolute, wrenching certainty that if he was to let Crowley touch him, even once, he would never be able to see him as anything but his own Submissive, whether Crowley wanted that or not. Another Dominant might have been able to whip out a stronger resolve, but Aziraphale was weak, and he craved Crowley in a senseless, animal way. He could keep that hunger at bay by telling himself that he was merely a Dominant servicing a Submissive that evidently needed his help, but if he let that relationship become mutual, if he _allowed_ them to have a relationship, he wouldn’t be able to stop.

Crowley’s displeased gaze stayed on Aziraphale’s face for some time, before finally slipping away.

“As you say,” he grumbled. He looked vaguely uncomfortable, all of a sudden. “What now, then?”

Aziraphale hummed under his breath. The fact that Crowley was still there, instead of already halfway to his room, was more than he’d expected, more than he’d dared hope.

“You can do anything you want, of course,” Aziraphale answered, so very softly, barely keeping himself from reaching out and caressing Crowley’s face, “but it would make me happy if you stayed for a while.”

Aziraphale wondered a bit worriedly if that hadn’t sounded a bit too beseeching, when Crowley’s forehead drew up in a frown. Crowley seemed to consider his words for a while, obviously trying to parse how much he’d give away either agreeing or refusing and how that could be used against him, before setting a steady, wary gaze on Aziraphale’s face.

“All right.”

That wasn’t exactly the most enthusiastic agreement Aziraphale had ever heard, but since he’d expected to be turned down flat, it was actually more than he’d ever hoped he could get. He barely dared breathe, as Crowley shifted between his legs until he was curled at his feet, the back of his head to Aziraphale with his cheek pressed against Aziraphale’s thigh. Crowley was a warm, soothing weight between his legs, and Aziraphale found himself breathing deeply, freely, for the first time in what felt like a small eternity.

He debated for a moment whether to push his luck or not, but eventually the pull of Crowley’s body was just too much to fight, and he placed a gentle hand on the top of his head. Crowley drew a sharp breath at the touch, but didn’t protest, didn’t move a muscle in fact, and Aziraphale decided that it was a permission as good as any. He slipped his fingers in Crowley’s hair, slowly, gently, revelling in the feeling of having Crowley so close. He looked at him until he had his fill, taking in every shape, every jagged edge of his body.

“Are you cold, my dear?” he asked, realising that Crowley was still naked–something that somehow had managed to escape his attention even as he drank every single line of him. Aziraphale felt a wave of embarrassment at how easily he’d got distracted by Crowley’s proximity, and ashamed at his negligence.

Crowley hummed, soft and low. Aziraphale stroked his shoulder, feeling the tight muscles unclench at his tender touch. He traced the shape of Crowley’s collarbones, thumbed at the supple line of his collar. He grazed Crowley’s throat with his fingertips, toying idly with the fantasy of wrapping his hand around Crowley’s neck.

Crowley’s breath stuttered, as if he’d somehow heard that thought. Aziraphale slipped his hand away, back to safer territories, and sunk his fingers in the wavy mass of Crowley’s hair.

“’m fine.”

Aziraphale smiled a little to himself, hearing the drowsy, slightly bewildered quality of Crowley’s voice. His taut body was gradually relaxing between Aziraphale’s legs, and while Aziraphale regretted not having a blanket at hand to cover him with, he was also rather confident that the room was warm enough for Crowley not to catch his death. Aziraphale was positively sweating in his clothes, and the cooling come seeping through the leg of his trousers was getting increasingly uncomfortable, but he wouldn’t have moved for anything less than the room catching fire. His erection had finally abated, and now his skin was simply soaking the calm and gentleness of the moment like a sponge.

“Thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, wondering vaguely if he was giving too much away, if it would undermine his position and ultimately damage his relationship with Crowley, and yet not finding in himself the strength to keep his mouth shut. It felt so desperately good, holding him close, and Aziraphale wanted him to know.

Silence answered him for so long that Aziraphale was starting to doubt his words had been heard, when Crowley finally spoke.

“Whatever,” he grumbled, sharp and a little rough. “If you like to sit there like a twit covered in my come, I won’t be the one to stop you.”

It was nothing short of unthinkable, as far as answers went; a mutinous role reversal that no Dominant worth their salt could possibly tolerate. It stunned Aziraphale to silence for a long, tense moment, in which Crowley went stiff all over again under his hand. And then, just as Crowley seemed one second away from bolting, the words and the tone in which they had been delivered cracked something open in Aziraphale’s chest, something light and bright, that punched a giggle out of his chest. The giggle turned into a chuckle, and then into a laugh, and Aziraphale was soon wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

He’d kept his other hand on Crowley’s hair through it all, and it took him a moment to register the shift, as Crowley tipped his head back and regarded him with twinkling yellow eyes. He was smiling; a small, secret smile.

Aziraphale found himself smiling back.

* * *

Aziraphale’s perception of time got a bit muddled, as they sat together in silence. Words would’ve been redundant, jarring, and both of them seemed to understand that on a subliminal level. Crowley relaxed completely against Aziraphale’s thigh, tense sinews and muscles loosening up in a way that made him look almost boneless, snake-like, while Aziraphale closed his eyes and allowed the quiet of the moment to wash over him like high tide. His hand hadn’t stopped the lazy, easy petting of Crowley’s soft hair, pausing a few times only to finger gently the rim of his collar, and he treasured every single hitching of Crowley’s breath, as loud as a bang in the quiet.

After an incalculable amount of time, Crowley started to squirm under his hand, and Aziraphale knew that their soft interlude had come to an end. He stroked once again Crowley’s shoulder, delighting in the texture of his freckled skin, before letting his hand slip away.

Crowley seemed to take the absence of touch as a sign to get up and leave. He tottered a little on unstable legs as he rose, and for a wonderful, painful moment, Aziraphale found himself with an unobstructed close view of Crowley’s perfect arse. It was small, bony, but every movement made the wiry muscles under the taut skin shift and bunch up. There were dimples right above the gentle slopes of his cheeks, and there were places where the spare flesh looked soft enough for his fingers to sink in, soft enough to be lovingly kneaded. It took everything Aziraphale had not to reach out and palm that lovely arse, spreading the cheeks and taking a good look at the furled hole nested between them.

Aziraphale licked his lips, unable to look away, as Crowley sauntered with increasing steadiness towards the small pile of clothes he’d left on Aziraphale’s armchair. There was the ghost of a smirk on those thin lips, as Crowley spared him a look from the corner of his eye. Aziraphale huffed out a chuckle. Crowley knew very well which sort of sway he held over Aziraphale, and with the imbalance of power imbued in their relationship, thanks to the meddling of the Council, Aziraphale couldn’t hold it against him if Crowley liked to press the issue from time to time. Besides, it _was_ fun, being playfully led about like that. It was surely better than the disdainful looks or scornful snarls, and Aziraphale was grateful for it.

He was a bit put out by the gradual disappearance of Crowley’s lovely body under his clothes, but those clothes were sinful enough on their own, and Crowley wore them impossibly well. If that was indeed the first time he’d chosen his own garments, he’d taken to it like a duckling to water.

Aziraphale tried to look away at first, a bit worried that the hungry stare would be too much, but the small smirk on Crowley’s face, which had progressively grown more noticeable, spurred him on. He didn’t even bother to hide as he looked his fill, and eventually Crowley was once again safely ensconced in his suit of armour, dressed in black from head to toe. He hadn’t brought his shoes with him, though, and his socked feet looked strangely vulnerable on Aziraphale’s cream-coloured carpet.

“Well,” Crowley said eventually, when it’d become clear that Aziraphale wasn’t going to speak first. He cleared his throat, shifting on his feet. “Good night, I guess.”

Aziraphale wouldn’t have minded for Crowley to stay, but he knew better than to say so. He smiled at him, trying to convey how pleasant he’d found their evening, how pleasant he’d found Crowley’s company.

“Good night, my dear.”

Crowley looked at him with sharp eyes for a moment longer, before bowing his head a bit awkwardly and slipping out of the room.

The latch clicked almost too softly to be heard, as Crowley gently closed the door behind him.

* * *

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what he’d expected to happen, after that, but he was bloody relieved to wake up migraine-free the next morning, feeling awake and aware and finally more like himself. He called for Anathema to prepare a healthy breakfast downstairs, then stripped off his pyjama and stepped with a pleased groan into the shower.

He’d slept like the dead the night before, with vague dreams of soft skin and softer sighs, and felt energised as he scrubbed himself clean. His cock seemed to share his easy state of mind, since it was hard and straining by the time he finished slathering it with soap.

Aziraphale hesitated. He’d denied himself for so long. He’d known that he’d think of Crowley the moment he’d wrap his hand around his cock, and he hadn’t wanted to take advantage of his guest that way, as a source of dirty fantasies, but Aziraphale wasn’t sure he could go on much longer without seeking relief, at least by himself. The night before had tipped both their strained relationship and Aziraphale’s last shreds of control over the edge, and he felt entirely too restless and oversensitive to keep ignoring his most basic needs. Besides, now that he’d started thinking about it, he couldn’t seem to be able to stop chasing every single sigh and groan that had escaped Crowley’s lips and had been stored into his head, and he wondered how wise it’d be, to walk into their next scene entirely too worked up to be able to assess the situation calmly and take the best decisions for the Submissive in his care.

The simple thought that there _could be_ a next time, that he would be allowed to touch Crowley like that, to hold him while he fell apart, was unfortunately enough to tip the scales. Aziraphale groaned, deep, shuddering, as he finally wrapped his hand around his cock and gave it a tight, steady stroke. The pleasure felt electrifying, like biting a live wire, his body shrinking down to that kernel of bliss while all the rest disappeared. Aziraphale slammed his empty hand against the tiled wall and gave another tug at his hard cock, feeling it twitch within the cage of his fist. Every single memory he had of the previous night came dancing before his closed eyes as he pulled at his cock again, and again, forcing himself to go slow, to savour the sparks of pleasure cascading along his spine. Crowley kneeling, gloriously naked; Crowley on all fours, Crowley humping his leg, Crowley relaxing between his thighs. Crowley coming, the almost wounded sounds tumbling out of his mouth. Crowley’s hazy eyes.

It was too much. It felt a bit dirty, a bit like taking advantage, and a whole lot like an avalanche, impossible to control, impossible to stop, as Aziraphale hurtled through the memories and his hand picked up speed. The suds and the water made for a slippery slide, and the hot spray hitting his shoulders and his back had an almost sensuous quality, running down his spine like fingertips. Aziraphale groaned between his teeth, pleasure mounting slowly as he squeezed the tip just the way he liked and thumbed the sensitive stripe of skin under the head.

He wouldn’t last long, now. Not with Crowley shaking apart in his mind, his hard cock pressed against Aziraphale’s leg. He’d worn his come for more than one hour the evening before, until it’d become a cool, unpleasant goo, and the room had smelt of sex when he’d woken up. He’d opened the window for a while before calling Anathema, a bit self-conscious at how Crowley’s scent seemed to be everywhere, in his sheets and in his carpets and embedded into his very skin. It’d taken everything Aziraphale had not to pick his dirty trousers from the hamper and chase Crowley’s smell like a hound, hungry and half-crazed.

Aziraphale slammed his hand against the wall again, and again, as pleasure crested, as he imagined spreading Crowley on his bed and thumbing the soft cheeks of his arse open, examining his hole, prodding at it with his fingers, while Crowley groaned and shuddered into the pillow, copper hair spread like a curtain over Aziraphale’s linen. Aziraphale moaned, a deep, guttural sound, as he twisted his hand around his shaft and felt the molten heat of his orgasm trickle from his belly and pool in his groin. He scrambled uselessly for purchase on the slippery tiles as he came in short spurts all over the wall of the shower stall, spine locking, muscles trembling to keep him upright, to weather the violent spike of pleasure coursing through his veins.

It was done, then. Aziraphale fought to stay on his feet, instead of collapsing onto the floor, and eventually managed to get his muscles back under control. He washed the come from the tiles with the shower head, then rinsed himself a bit gingerly, hoping that Crowley wouldn’t read what had just happened on his face the moment they met again. Who knew, though. He might even be pleased. It was always so hard to tell with him.

Aziraphale tottered out of the shower on unsteady legs and dried himself up. He brushed his teeth, shaved, and slipped into his usual attire. He fixed the bow of his tie over the hollow of his throat and told himself that he was ready to face the day.

The ghost of Crowley visited him again, as he closed the door ever so softly behind him. Aziraphale thought for the very first time that he didn’t really mind being haunted, after all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been almost a year since I updated this story last, but I did promise that I would go back to it as soon as REFL was finished, so here we are. This chapter has been a _long_ time coming, and I hope with all my heart that it will be worth the wait. I’m not sure when the next update will be, and while I feel rather confident that it won’t take another year!, my [Twitter](https://twitter.com/nekhen2/) is as usual the place to go if you want to be kept in the loop about the tossing and turning of my fickle inspiration.  
> If you left comments to this story in the year past, I thank you with all my heart. It took me an embarrassing long time to answer, but know that every single one of them brightened my day.  
> If you are still here, if you have the time, please let me know. I could really do with some love right now <3

Life slipped back into an easier, more familiar routine, after that evening. Being able to get Crowley through a scene, to give him what he needed, to offer proper aftercare, seemed to have sated something hidden deep inside Aziraphale’s body. He still hungered, in a way that he despaired it would ever go away, but that misplaced sense of anxiety seemed to abate during the following day. The migraines didn’t make a comeback, and Aziraphale was able to focus on his work, on his daily life, instead of writhing in agony from one room to the next like the wraith haunting his own house. Crowley was never far from his mind, but that intolerable obsession, that manic desperation, had been reduced to more bearable levels.

It was one week later that his hands started trembling again. His mood had been steadily declining in the previous days, his focus wavering. Aziraphale knew it was normal, something that was supposed to settle down after the initial honeymoon period, after their bodies had fallen into synch and they wouldn’t need each other quite as much to keep their balance, but the lack of control he had over his own biology was frustrating, and unnerving.

He wasn’t entirely new to those sorts of symptoms, of course. His brain chemistry could only hold on for a fixed amount of time without a scene, then his control started to fray at the edges, to turn into a strained, struggling lifeline, in danger of snapping. The darkening moods, the trembling hands, were his body’s way of telling him that it was high time to look for companionship. Aziraphale had learnt years before to recognise the early symptoms, to seek the right remedy and put an end to that situation before it became a problem. He hadn’t experienced those sorts of violent reactions in a very long time, and never repeatedly in such a short period. Such a level of instability was completely new to him, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure he cared much for it. He had been perfectly capable of going on for months without a Submissive for most of his life, and it irked him now not to be able to go a week without Crowley.

The evening they’d spent together hadn’t seemed to change overly much Crowley’s attitude towards him. Crowley would still avoid him for all that was worth, although Anathema had reported, with no little satisfaction, that Crowley had resumed his attempts at annoying the hell out of everyone that wasn’t Aziraphale and was generally underfoot at any given moment. He’d given the kitchen another try, succeeding only in getting Madame Tracy, who usually adored him, to chase him out with a broom, and almost killed himself and Newton in an attempt at fixing a few loose tiles onto the roof. Upon hearing this, Aziraphale had felt all the colour drain from his cheeks, but at his sharp order never to let Crowley do something so dangerous again, Anathema had nearly chuckled and answered that the staff had already reached the same conclusion. Aziraphale wasn’t sure how he felt about his staff making decisions about Crowley, but since he’d just done the same, when he’d promised the man and himself that he would leave Crowley complete autonomy, he couldn’t exactly clamour for a place upon his high horse.

Given how Crowley had seemed to suffer just as much as Aziraphale from the lack of regular scenes, Aziraphale wasn’t exceedingly surprised to find him once again kneeling naked on his carpet, a few days later. And yet, as much as he’d expected Crowley to make a move, sooner or later, an almost unbearable sense of relief washed over him at the sight, as though a twisted nerve had been partially soothed. Although the migraines had yet to return, he’d missed Crowley atrociously during their time apart, unable to stop himself from wondering where he was, what he was doing. He could feel the need to touch him again like needles prickling his skin, and he was already half hard as he closed the door behind him, his body hyperaware of the man’s physical proximity. They were alone, together in the same room, behind closed doors, and his blood roared at the thought.

It felt as though Crowley’s mere presence was drawing him closer, like gravity, as Aziraphale took an almost unwilling step forward, then another. He regretted vaguely not having taken matters in his own hand again, after that morning in the shower, as the jagged edge of repressed need prickled painfully deep into his flesh. He needed to be calm, to be focused; not to let his own hunger thrash him about. And yet, he could feel heat bloom under his skin as he stepped closer, finding the wherewithal to stop only when he felt Crowley’s sharp eyes rest upon him with what looked like badly-concealed wariness.

Aziraphale took a deep breath. He needed to get his own riotous body under control.

“Hello, Crowley,” he murmured, smiling gently at the naked man kneeling in front of him. He’d kept the round carpet, after their previous encounter, and was deeply pleased to see Crowley kneeling on it. The room was cold, though, and that simply wouldn’t do. “Let me warm up the room a bit, my dear. You must be freezing, kneeling naked like that.”

“’s ok, I barely feel it,” Crowley very obviously lied. His skin was raised in goosebumps, and after fiddling with the heater Aziraphale picked a spread from his bed and knelt beside him, wrapping it around those bony shoulders.

He got a rather peeved glare for his trouble.

“I don’t need you to coddle me,” Crowley sullenly grumbled. He was way more aware than Aziraphale would’ve liked, all sharp amber eyes and mouth downturned into a grimace.

Aziraphale sighed.

“I know you don’t. _I_ do.” He smiled at him, daring to reach out with his hand and brush Crowley’s cheek. “Humour me. Will you?”

Crowley stared him down with a rather piercing glare, before giving ground. He scoffed, but allowed Aziraphale to cup his cheek in his palm, and leant slightly into it.

Aziraphale’s smile turned soft, without prompting on his part, and he used his other hand to trace the shape of Crowley’s jaw, his cheekbone, the round shell of his ear. A light blush bloomed on Crowley’s cheek at the gentle touch, and Aziraphale realised that Crowley’s cock was not entirely soft where it lay, propped gently against his wiry thigh.

Food for thought.

“What would you like to do tonight, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, careful to keep his voice low and unobtrusive. He slightly tilted Crowley’s head to trace with his thumb the ridged path between his chin and his throat, and stopped right above the collar, wriggling his index under the tight strip of leather. He felt Crowley swallow convulsively against the back of his finger, and the motion went straight to his cock, like a thunderbolt along an energy line.

“Ngk,” Crowley gasped, then set his teeth and tried again. “What... ah, what we did last time. It was all right. Not entirely revolting.”

“High praises,” Aziraphale chuckled, getting a disgruntled glare for his trouble. He traced the girth of the collar with his index, feeling how tight the leather was, how giving the flesh, and slipped his finger out only when he reached the back of Crowley’s neck.

“Well,” Crowley grumbled, swallowing thickly. Aziraphale watched in fascination his Adam’s apple bob up and down, riding the supple rim of his collar. Aziraphale had felt the vibration of every word against his finger, the rippling of every breath, and was tempted to wrap his entire hand around Crowley’s throat, to feel under his palm the secret mechanisms of his body. He craved to control Crowley’s entire physical being in a way that was almost disturbing at times, visceral and predatory.

“Is that what you want, my darling?” Aziraphale murmured, cupping the back of Crowley’s neck with his palm and pressing the other hand against his sternum. “To kneel at my feet and come against my leg?”

Crowley’s chest felt fragile against his hand, hard and brittle like glass. It was dappled with a dark fuzz, and Aziraphale sunk his fingers into the long hairs, finding them surprisingly soft to the touch. It was a patchy, scrubby growth, probably due to the many years spent waxing that bony chest raw, but it was a sign of rebellion as stark as any. Aziraphale found himself quite taken with it.

He felt the low growl of Crowley’s voice in his fingertips, as he answered.

“Don’t.”

Aziraphale blinked.

“Don’t what, dearest?”

Crowley’s eyes were full of humiliated anger, boring holes in Aziraphale’s. His grimace had grown sharper, jagged, showing teeth.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a dog.”

Aziraphale reared back at the accusation, eyes widening. He hadn’t expected that. Crowley had seemed quite receptive to vocal stimulations, and Aziraphale was a bit confused by that sort of reaction.

“I’m... I’m not. I wouldn’t.” Aziraphale stroked his cheek, and was relieved when Crowley didn’t pull away. His eyes were still hard, though, and unforgiving. “That’s not what I meant. I thought... well. I thought you liked the sound of my voice. I can stop, if it disturbs you.”

Crowley stared at him a moment longer, before looking away. Aziraphale frowned. He considered using his hands to pull Crowley’s attention back where it belonged, but he discharged the idea immediately. He was discovering that delicate touches yielded most results with that particular Submissive.

His patience was rewarded. After a long, tense silence, Crowley spoke up again.

“I... I do. Like it,” he admitted, almost against his will. He was still looking away, his brows furrowed in a massive frown, but he was giving ground, making concessions. It was more than Aziraphale had ever dreamt of getting from him. “Just... not like that. Not like I’m a thing, an animal. Grovelling at your feet.”

“Oh, my darling.” Aziraphale pressed their foreheads together; an impulsive decision, that miraculously didn’t explode in his face. Crowley stiffened at the touch, poised on the brink of wrenching away, but he stayed. He breathed in Aziraphale’s same air. “You’re not an animal, and you’re not a thing. That was not what I meant.”

A beat.

“’s fine,” Crowley gruffly conceded. He felt so warm, so wonderful against him, while they were pressed so close. Aziraphale squashed down every single fantasy he had, every single thought about what they could do, so near to one another.

He kept both like that for a while longer, then drew slowly back. Crowley’s eyes lingered closed for a moment, before fluttering open. They looked a bit lost, and Aziraphale smiled at him, brushing his chin.

“The room should be warm enough, now,” Aziraphale murmured, caressing Crowley’s cheek, his neck, the slope of his shoulder. “Are you ready to start, my dear?”

Crowley took a deep breath, then shed the blanket covering his shoulders. His nipples pebbled in the cool air, and Aziraphale forced himself to sit still, instead of reaching out. Crowley’s cock was so enticingly close, mostly soft, but begging for a touch.

“All right,” Crowley sighed, nearly chasing Aziraphale’s hands with an aborted movement when they were pulled away.

Aziraphale smiled, drawing himself to his feet slowly to avoid startling Crowley out of that increasingly dreamy state. Crowley looked up at him with eyes that struggled to stay focused, and Aziraphale forced himself not to reach out, walking backwards to the bed instead. He fussed a bit with the rug when he got there, and eventually sat down with the plush carpet lying between his splayed feet.

“Come here, darling,” Aziraphale murmured, as he got out of his tie and waistcoat and rolled up his sleeves. The room was slowly but steadily getting warmer, and having a very naked Crowley kneeling between his thighs would do very little to cool him down.

Crowley hummed under his breath, pushing himself on all fours and crawling to him. He did it quickly, almost as if he wanted to get it over with, and Aziraphale nearly clucked his tongue at him. It was part of the scene. It was supposed to help Crowley to get into the right mindset, not something that ought to be rushed. But it wasn’t the time to correct Crowley on the matter, and Aziraphale let it be, as Crowley settled between his splayed legs and pressed his face against Aziraphale’s thigh with a deep, almost shuddering sigh.

Aziraphale smiled down at him with something close to fondness, realising that Crowley had craved the touch as much as he had during their time apart. It was a warming feeling, and the way Crowley had bowed his head and offered his neck, without hesitation and without apprehension, plucked a cord deep in Aziraphale’s chest. He took a steadying breath, and sunk his fingers into Crowley’s hair with open relief.

Time stretched on after that, and soon Crowley was clawing at Aziraphale’s thigh looking for purchase, as the orgasm ripped through his body. He keened as he reached his peak, a wounded sound, hips stuttering as he came all over Aziraphale’s calf and partly on his own belly. He was panting as he came down, Aziraphale’s hand securely slotted against his nape, and looked at the mess on his stomach for a lazy moment before wiping it away with a shaky hand. Aziraphale wasn’t exactly surprised when Crowley immediately rubbed his hand clean against Aziraphale’s trousers, but he still pulled slightly at that fiery hair, getting an idle, impish smirk for his trouble.

“They were already dirty, after all,” Crowley drawled, sighing contentedly and resting his cheek against Aziraphale’s thigh.

Aziraphale scoffed, pulling at Crowley’s hair until his head was bowed backward, languid yellow eyes looking up at him from under heavy lids.

“That’s not an excuse for such beastly behaviour, you know,” Aziraphale grumbled, barely refraining from slipping his fingers in Crowley’s mouth and having him suck at them as punishment. The pull had bared Crowley’s throat in a way that would’ve been enticing on its own, but the thick loop of Aziraphale’s collar framing that vulnerable spot was making it almost unbearably arousing.

“Hmm,” Crowley hummed, sounding rather hazy. “Whatever you say.”

Aziraphale huffed, a little exasperatedly, and let him go. Crowley settled comfortably between his legs, and Aziraphale’s heart warmed at the trust implicit in the gesture, at Crowley staying without being asked or prompted. Aziraphale sank his hand in Crowley’s hair and stroked it slowly, gently, relishing the feeling of Crowley going almost boneless in the safe enclosure of his body. He liked having him there, lax and pliant between his legs, not a bit of him left cold and exposed and vulnerable when his entire physical being was fenced in by Aziraphale’s flesh and bones. It quieted something raw and angry inside Aziraphale, something growling in the dark. Aziraphale closed his eyes and let himself be soothed, Crowley’s regular intakes of breath like the ticking of a clock.

He cracked one eye open, when he felt Crowley starting to squirm. It took Aziraphale a bit longer than what was strictly necessary to untwist his hand from those silky curls and let Crowley free, but freed him he did, if ever begrudgingly. Crowley got up on unsteady legs, providing once again Aziraphale with an unfairly tempting view of his arse, and then tottered back to his clothes. Aziraphale looked at him getting dressed in hushed silence, then smiled at him, once every piece of clothing was back in place and Crowley had no excuse left to stay. Crowley smiled back, a bit nervously, with something close to embarrassment floating somewhere in his expressive eyes.

“Good night, Aziraphale,” he said eventually, when he realised that there was nothing else left to say.

Aziraphale’s smile turned softer, something akin to affection sparkling in his chest.

“Good night, my dear.”

Crowley’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer, uncertain, almost pensive. Then Crowley nodded sharply and was gone, door closing softly behind him.

* * *

December was already drawing to a close, and Christmas came and went without much fanfare. Aziraphale had been a fervent believer as a child, and had promptly grown into a fairly indifferent adult who was simply too lazy to fight a bunch of traditions that seemed as good a thing to do on the occasion as any. His family had always attended Mass on Christmas Eve and enjoyed a sumptuous lunch on Christmas Day, and so did Aziraphale.

In a way, those fixed points in time gave Aziraphale’s solitary life a structure that would’ve otherwise been entirely lacking. He didn’t have to get up every morning, go somewhere, do something in an established pattern that would in time be sublimated into a routine. He hadn’t _had_ to do anything at all for a very, very long time, and that made the habits he’d created for himself ever important. He didn’t go farther than his drawing-room on most days, granted, but if he didn’t follow his morning rituals, shave, get dressed, fix his bowtie to perfection, he’d just slide into an apathy from which he wasn’t sure he could dig himself out. Christmas and Easter were just as important, shaping his years the way his familiar rituals shaped his days.

On every Christmas Eve since he’d come of age and taken over Needle’s Eye after his parents had retired into one of their northern estates, Aziraphale would call his chauffeur and drive into town for the Midnight Mass, and that year wouldn’t be any different. He ate a light dinner in his drawing-room, in usual deference to the hefty lunch he had in store for the day after, and took the chance to send forth Anathema with an offer for his staff to tag along, if any was so inclined. Most of them didn’t care much for Mass, but he made the same polite enquiry every year, and every year his offer would be taken up only by Madame Tracy and Mr. Shadwell. He highly doubted that having a Submissive in his house would change that state of affairs, and hadn’t really expected Crowley to partake in their little trip. He wasn’t therefore particularly surprised to receive from Anathema the usual answer on that particular Christmas Eve, and sent a request for Newton to have the Rolls at the ready for half past ten. He donned one of his best suits (a starched dove-white three-piece that no one was going to see anyway under the thick winter coat), slipped into a shiny pair of white patent leather shoes and joined the others downstairs.

The drive to town was delightfully lively, as usual. Madame Tracy’s presence put Mr. Shadwell on his best behaviour, which consisted mostly in sullen silences and the occasional evil glance, but Aziraphale had grown used to them through time, and neither appeared to faze Madame Tracy in the slightest. She kept up her bright conversation with both of them (and occasionally with Newton, since the trap was always open as per Aziraphale’s request) through the entire trip, chattering about the latest books she’d read and what she had in store for their sumptuous lunch on Christmas Day. Aziraphale didn’t really have many occasions to talk to such lengths with any member of his staff that wasn’t Anathema, and he relished the chance of being more familiar than usual with the people who lived with him day in and day out. It was in such times that he’d realise with almost dreamy wistfulness how isolated he was, and yet how disinclined to change his steady routine to include the wild card that would be a stranger in his well-organised life.

The choice, eventually, had been made for him. Aziraphale still wasn’t sure how he felt about that, if he resented it or was grateful for it. He’d come to concede that he would’ve never lifted a finger to change his life, left to his own devices, but having a Submissive roaming his halls was not making him feel any less alone.

The town church was an old thing, built by the Normans who had crossed the English Channel almost a millennium before and refitted time and time again through the following centuries. It was an austere building, made of thick stones and bottle glasses. People were already streaming through the main oak doors as Newton pulled up by the curb, and Aziraphale gallantly helped Madame Tracy to climb out of the car before letting her son drive away. Aziraphale had been fairly surprised to find out that the young man actually liked the service, and always made sure they’d be there early enough for Newton to park the car and find them before Mass.

Although Aziraphale’s faith wasn’t particularly strong anymore, the ambience and the atmosphere always did the trick. There was something timeless and oddly fascinating in the way the naked stone bricks shone at the flicking lights of a thousand candles, and Aziraphale had always liked the severe architecture of the old church, the symmetrical arches, the tiled floors, the beautiful organ rising behind the pulpit. It gave him a sense of everlasting serenity, like the illuminated manuscripts he tended to for the best part of his days. His life, his problems, were nothing but petty concerns to things so old, and it helped, in a way, to have his troubles scaled down to something less monumental, something within his grasp. He didn’t really care for the ceremony of it all, but he did come out in a less frayed state of mind from the services. He couldn’t really ask for more than that.

Halfway through Mass his mind started to wander, and it went back to Crowley, like it always did. He couldn’t help but wonder if whatever little steps they were taking towards a more stable relationship actually meant anything. Their interactions seemed so precarious, so delicate. Would their partnership always be like that, a balancing act right on the knife edge between what their biology dictated and what they actually wanted for themselves? Such a depressing thought to have.

But then again, wasn’t that what Aziraphale deserved? He’d never wanted a Submissive to begin with, after all. He’d never wanted the hassle of looking after someone else, of dealing with the devastating weight of responsibility and failure, and now he had exactly the sort of Submissive he’d thought he could begrudgingly accept–the sort that used him the way Aziraphale had used Companions for all those years, as a way to keep his urges under control. Crowley had never looked for him once outside the handful of scenes they’d shared, had never required anything from Aziraphale beyond a few hours every couple of weeks. He was perfect.

And yet, Aziraphale couldn’t seem to find any peace in that heavy silence between scenes, any consolation. He yearned for Crowley’s presence like a missing limb, like a thirst he couldn’t seem to quench. He wanted to have Crowley close enough to touch, close enough to hold, even when they weren’t playing. He wanted to talk to him, really _talk_ , with their clothes on and across a table.

He wanted a Submissive. That was the irony of it all. He’d spent years refusing every offer made to him and ended up craving the company of the only Submissive who wanted nothing to do with him. He couldn’t help but wish for Crowley to be at his side right now, reaching for him, or simply sitting there, the flickering light of the candles softening the sharp cut of his jaw, shimmering in the amber hue of his eyes.

Aziraphale struggled to hold in a scoff. He’d apparently waited until his forties to become a _romantic_ , of all things.

Mass ended well past midnight, and Aziraphale ignored Mr. Shadwell’s evil glares as he helped Madame Tracy into her coat. It was cold outside, not quite snowing yet, but the air smelt like an oncoming storm.

Aziraphale couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen snow on Christmas. Perhaps as a child. Or perhaps much later, but he’d been too busy to notice. He wondered suddenly if Crowley had ever been out in the snow, if he’d ever been allowed. He realised with something close to shock that Crowley’s file was extremely thorough, as per Council’s standards, and yet it told Aziraphale absolutely nothing. If he wanted to know more, he supposed, he’d have to ask. But that didn’t look like a road that would lead to success.

They walked out to the pebbled courtyard, people streaming around them, and waited for Newton by the curb. The night was clear, their breaths condensing in white puffs as they burrowed into their thick scarves and woollen coats. Aziraphale rubbed his gloved hands, trying to get the blood flowing into cold skin. The church had been partially heated, but the rough stones only allowed for so much warmth. Mr. Shadwell was a few feet ahead of them, grumbling into the clear night hair and waving at Newton, slowly driving up to them, as though the poor lad was blind and dumb. It was an oddly hushed moment, a moment devoid of thought, and Aziraphale was startled by Madame Tracy’s gentle hand brushing his elbow.

“I think it’s a fine thing you’re doing,” she whispered, her eyes looking huge with all that make-up, “with Master Crowley. A fine, generous thing. You are a kind man, Master Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale stared at her for a moment, before ducking his head. He didn’t feel kind. He felt dejected, and hungry, and foolish. A lonely old man, well in his forties, who had just realised exactly how lonely he was.

“Thank you, Madam,” he replied, because there was nothing else for him to say.

Madame Tracy seemed to sense his discomfort, somehow. She patted his arm, just as Newton pulled the car close to the pavement.

“It will be all right. He’ll see it too, how kind you are. If he hasn’t already.”

Aziraphale tried to think of an answer, any sort of answer, but Madame Tracy was already opening the door and climbing into the car. Aziraphale could do nothing but follow suit.

The drive home turned out to be just as lively as their way there, but Aziraphale couldn’t get rid of Madame Tracy’s words, like a whisper in the back of his head. Soft, like an incantation of old.

He could still hear their echo in his thoughts, as he saw Crowley kneeling on the floor of his room, a few days later. Aziraphale was just starting to show the very first signs of withdrawal, his body buzzing with need, and the sight soothed his ruffled instincts like a tender touch on a bristling dog.

“Good evening, my dear,” Aziraphale gently greeted him, closing the door and turning on the heating. He fetched a spread and knelt beside Crowley, covering him while the room warmed up.

“Still this ridiculous thing?” Crowley gruffly asked, breaking his stance to pinch a corner of the blanket between thumb and index. “I don’t need it. I told you.”

His voice sounded almost gravelly, as though he’d been struggling not to fall asleep. Feeling daring, Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand and brought it to his lips, slowly kissing the palm. He felt Crowley tense in his grip, but he didn’t take the hand away, which Aziraphale decided to count as progress.

“And I told you that _I_ am the one who needs it,” he gently replied, nuzzling the skin. Crowley’s palm was warm, but the back of his hand was rather cool. It was a state of things Aziraphale was not satisfied with. “If you don’t like it, you could turn on the heating when you come in, instead of kneeling in the cold for who knows how long.”

Crowley answered with a grumbling sound, something that somehow managed to convey both how exasperating he was finding Aziraphale’s stubbornness and that he would consider his request. Aziraphale smirked against his palm, and pressed another slow kiss to the sensitive skin. He was quite satisfied to hear Crowley’s breath hitch almost imperceptibly, and to be allowed to carry on, instead of Crowley snatching his hand away.

It was a time for boldness, it seemed. Aziraphale slipped a hand under the spread, and pressed it gently against Crowley’s stomach. Crowley almost jumped out of his skin at the touch, but he left his hand where he was, cradled between Aziraphale’s palm and cheek, and eyed him with more uncertainty than mistrust.

“Is my hand cold, darling?” Aziraphale purred, offering him an excuse, so that Crowley wouldn’t have to admit that the touch had startled him.

Crowley’s stomach twitched under Aziraphale’s palm, delicate and alive. The skin was cooler than Aziraphale would’ve liked, but it was quickly warming up under the blanket.

“A bit.”

“Should I take it away?”

Crowley blinked at him, his eyes wide and a bit wary so up close. To Aziraphale it all felt rather like handling a wild cat, one misstep earning him sharp claws instead of a purr.

“No. ‘s ok. You can leave it there.”

Aziraphale hummed, tracing with his fingertips the shapes of Crowley’s ribs, the bumps of his sternum. He pressed a kiss against Crowley’s inner wrist, heard him sigh ever so softly.

They stayed like that until the room was warm enough, then Aziraphale stepped back to the bed and beckoned Crowley close. Crowley shed the blanket from his shoulders and crawled to him, looking a bit distracted, a bit sedated, and knelt with a sigh between Aziraphale’s spread legs. He hummed when Aziraphale sunk a hand in his hair, going immediately boneless at the first pull against his scalp. He came with a groan so deep Aziraphale felt it reverberate in his very bones, and then settled loosely in the cage of Aziraphale’s legs, allowing him to pet his hair and stroke his shoulders for a time that felt impossibly long.

It soothed something deep inside Aziraphale, that stillness. Sharing a scene required a staggering amount of trust, but sharing a silence implied intimacy, implied revelling in each other’s closeness in a way that transcended words, transcended sex. Implied tenderness. Aziraphale was drifting, content and vaguely aroused, when he felt the first stirrings that heralded a hasty departure. He didn’t want Crowley to leave. Not yet.

“Did you have a nice Christmas, darling?” he asked, because he didn’t know what else to say to keep Crowley there, keep him close.

The questions seemed to take Crowley aback, in some way.

“’twas all right,” he grumbled, a bit uncertainly, as though he wasn’t quite sure about the right answer to that question. He’d spent both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with Anathema and the rest of Aziraphale’s staff, and even if Aziraphale had missed his presence, he was happy Crowley had managed to have a nice time. “Got your present.”

Aziraphale opened his eyes at that, the reality of things slowly pulling him out of that relaxed state.

It was an old tradition for employers to give Christmas presents to their staff, and one of Aziraphale’s favourites. He would send generic baskets full of sweets and preserves to his part-time personnel, but his house staff was small enough that he’d always prided himself in finding the right present for each and every one of them. He’d gifted a new set of tarot cards to Anathema, handcrafted in some obscure Italian village; expensive skin care products from France to Madame Tracy; and rather rusted memorabilia from the last Anglo-Indian war to Mr. Shadwell. Newton got a new laptop, since he’d somehow managed to destroy the last one, and after careful deliberation and tormented indecision, Aziraphale had decided to give Crowley a dove orchid. He seemed to like his walks in the garden, and the florist he’d asked to had told him it was a rare species. Perfect for a gift.

“Did you like it?” Aziraphale asked, in a low, careful voice. He hadn’t really expected Crowley to answer that, but answer he did.

“Yes.” A beat, and then: “Thank you.”

Aziraphale felt the words like a blow, reaching deep, tugging at his tired heart. He closed his eyes.

“You’re welcome, my dear.”

Crowley didn’t say anything else, but he stayed a bit longer, allowing Aziraphale to stroke his hair until that strange, almost painful feeling had abated before getting on his feet and walking away.

* * *

It was difficult to take stock of the passage of time, isolated as they were in that grand, silent country house in the middle of the woods. It was something that Aziraphale both relished and found vaguely unsettling. There was a deeply soothing quality to the trudging of days that looked all the same, but while Aziraphale revelled in the peaceful rhythm of such a life, he would occasionally startle awake to realise that years had passed without him really noticing, as though he’d slept them away like an enchanted princess from a fairytale.

Another year was coming to an end. He would’ve forgotten all about it, if it hadn’t been for Anathema’s quiet request for a free evening on behalf of the staff, so that they could have a little celebration to usher in the new year. Aziraphale had easily agreed, and after an early dinner he’d retired to his drawing-room for some light reading. But the kitchen was just underneath, and the ancient wood floors weren’t very thick. He could hear the noise coming from below, the laughter, and while he was disturbed by that, he’d never dream of ruining the celebrations. Someone had to mark the passage of time, after all, and since Aziraphale wasn’t really going to, his employees would have to do the honours. The house was big enough to allow his staff to have some fun and grant him the quiet he craved, after all.

Aziraphale closed the book on his lap and placed it on the small coffee table, before sparing a look at the antique clock. It was barely eight o’clock, way too early to retire to his room. He could find a number of unused drawing-rooms on any floor of the house, if he wanted to, but not all of them had been refitted with modern heating, and he wasn’t sure which chimneys had been maintained well enough through the years to risk lighting a fire. The upkeep of a huge manor such as Needle’s Eye was a rather expensive enterprise, and while Aziraphale’s parents had left him enough assets to afford him a more than decent living, he loathed the thought of wasting money on the superfluous. He kept everything he or his staff used for everyday life in top condition, but since he didn’t have visitors and rarely changed his daily routine, there was no point in devoting anything more complex than basic maintenance to areas in which no one had set foot in years. He couldn’t even remember which rooms were actually fit for use, instead of a ghostly jungle of old furniture covered in plastic over bare floors.

The library, however, was one of the few places in the old house to which Aziraphale had always devoted absolute care. Every shelf would be dusted once a day, the floors swept regularly, the antique tables waxed and the brass polished. There were thick blankets on the padded loveseats, and Persian rugs on the floor. The library had been kept in fairly good conditions by his parents, but Aziraphale had had the room refitted with electricity and modern heating, together with a humidity-control system that while less sophisticated than the one in his studio was still efficient enough to keep the books mould-free. The tall shelves and antique cabinets made for a rather lovely background both to serious studies and some more leisurely reading, and Aziraphale decided he’d spend the evening there. He needed a new book, after all, since he’d just finished _Vanity Fair_ for the twelfth time and wasn’t completely sure what he was in the mood for at that juncture. Perhaps some Swift or Stevenson, or even Doyle. He could do with some adventure in his quiet life, after all.

He was rather surprised to find a soft brightness filtering through the heavy oak doors, at the end of the long corridor that led to the library. The evening was dark and overcast, and the house was steeped in deep, flickering shadows. Aziraphale turned on the light in the corridor and walked up to the doors, pulling one open and slipping inside.

It took him a moment to find the unexpected guest. The floor was huge and open, the walls crowded with towering shelves nailed to the slightly rounded ceiling. Someone had taken possession of one of the tables at the far-off end, turning on the desk lamp and covering the entire surface with open books. The glossy shine of his red hair was impossible to mistake, even through the distance.

“Crowley?”

Aziraphale’s voice echoed too loud, almost garish in the perfect silence. He winced at the sound, and Crowley, who had been too absorbed with his readings to hear the soft rustle of the door being opened, whipped up his head upon hearing his name. His eyes were wide and startled, and he looked almost scared for a moment, before finding his bearings and staring Aziraphale down with a hard look, almost daring him to protest against his presence.

Aziraphale had no intention of doing such a thing. After a first moment of surprise, he found himself rather satisfied at seeing Crowley again, and fairly delighted about meeting him outside the confines of his own bedroom. He hadn’t quite reached yet the point where another scene would be necessary, and while the hunger he felt for Crowley was still there, bristling in the background, it was quiet enough to allow him to simply enjoy his presence.

There was something lovely in seeing him there, doing something for himself in Aziraphale’s house, like he belonged there, _truly_ belonged: not like a temporary fix, but a permanent junction, delicately entwined into Aziraphale’s ordinary life. He had even taken the time to turn on the heating, which pleased Aziraphale’s Dominant side all too well–the thought that Crowley was properly taken care of trickling treacherously deep into the marrow of his very bones. The entire picture felt domestic, and warm, even if it was little more than an illusion. Aziraphale was troubled by how much he liked it.

“Were you looking for me?” Crowley asked, rather stiffly, after a long, tense silence. He looked defiant, like a cat pushed in a corner. He obviously found Aziraphale’s presence displeasing, and it stung, that automatic rejection. But that was Aziraphale’s house, and he would not be kicked out of his own library.

“Not at all, dear boy,” Aziraphale calmly replied, lifting the book in his hand. “Just looking for something else to read.”

Crowley considered him a while longer, before deflating slightly. He still looked watchful, but a bit less belligerent, as if Aziraphale’s quiet answer had somehow soothed some of those bristling instincts.

It was with a pang of familiar sorrow that Aziraphale realised that Crowley had been expecting a harsh reproach for being where he was not supposed to, where he wasn’t welcome, and now he wasn’t too sure of what was about to come next. Aziraphale had given him open permission to roam the grounds of his estate, but apparently Crowley didn’t trust his word all that much. It would’ve been a bit insulting, if Aziraphale hadn’t found himself wondering whether Crowley had been given permission in the past only to be punished when he took advantage of it. Such an abhorrent thought.

Crowley tensed up, as Aziraphale came closer. He looked poised to flee, like a startled bird, to the point that Aziraphale was sadly unsurprised by his next words.

“Do you want me to leave?” Crowley asked, low and rather resigned.

“Whatever for, my dear?” Aziraphale answered, carefully crafting his voice to be soothing without bordering on condescending. “There is enough place for both of us.”

He made a show of looking intently at the bookshelves, but he could feel the weight of Crowley’s gaze lingering on his back as he perused a few titles without really reading a single word.

“All right.”

The concession came like a gust of fresh air. Aziraphale felt ridiculously pleased by it, by the impossible warmth of sharing a room with Crowley without needing to. He picked up a book at random and went to sit on a couch, pulling a blanket on his legs and trying to concentrate on the printed words. He realised early on how impossible that was, with how keenly focused he was on the small sounds Crowley was making by breathing, turning the pages, or moving on to another book. The fact that the tome Aziraphale had picked was a rather uninspiring ornithology treatise offered very little help in the matter.

Aziraphale had been lingering on the same page for more than twenty minutes, by the time he decided to give up. There was only so much he could read about the great northern diver before declaring defeat, and he couldn’t keep out of his mind the gentle rustle of Crowley’s clothes. He was aware of his presence on the other side of the room like a wound, like an itch that he couldn’t scratch. What was even the point of pretending anymore? Maybe it was time to be bold.

“You look much taken with those books,” he said, startling a sharp gaze from Crowley. “Something interesting?”

“Why?”

As expected. Aziraphale shrugged.

“I’m curious. I thought... well. I thought you’d be in the kitchens with the others. Celebrating the coming of the new year.”

He hoped against hope that Crowley wouldn’t take it as a reproach, and for once he was granted his wish.

“Too noisy,” was the curt reply. Then Crowley seemed to think better of it. “Anathema asked me to stay,” he added, a bit unwillingly, “but I like this place. It’s quiet. And I wanted to finish some stuff I’ve been reading. I didn’t think someone would come here tonight.”

Crowley flinched a little, as though he’d caught up on how his comment could be interpreted. He’d been cold and jeering for so long that Aziraphale felt something dangerously close to warmth spreading in his chest when Crowley carried on, as if offering an olive branch:

“You have some nice books about plants in your collection.”

It wasn’t what Aziraphale had been expecting. He arched a brow.

“Do I? I had no idea.” A beat. “Well, my great-grandfather was a keen botanist, according to my grandmother, so I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised. I’m more at home with the literature and history sections, to be honest.”

“The dove orchid was dying,” Crowley blurted out, in something close to shocking openness, “and I didn’t know what to do. No one here did, really. We managed to find something online before Newton busted his laptop, and the orchid is getting a bit better now, but it’s still not enough. Then Anathema suggested the library. It’s slow work, but I’m learning.”

Aziraphale was flabbergasted. He didn’t think he’d heard Crowley utter so many words in one go before, and never to express any interest. Never to indicate that he enjoyed something that could be taken away. It was a shocking sign of trust, and Aziraphale felt humbled by the sheer magnitude of it. Crowley’s eyes were still a bit guarded, but bright in a way that Aziraphale had never seen before. He felt something squeeze painfully in his chest, like a fist.

“Well,” he said, struggling to come to terms with how much Crowley was giving away, with the fact that he was putting such an effort into something that _Aziraphale_ had given him, “those books must be at least a century old. Maybe we could find something a bit more recent for you to read. I’ll ask one of my contacts. I think I should know someone who knows someone who actually works in the field, at any rate, and I could get a list of recommendations.”

Crowley stiffened at such an answer, sparing Aziraphale a sharp, guarded look.

“I would like that.”

Aziraphale smiled at him, warmed and electrified to his very bones.

“I’ll get to it right after the holidays.”

Another short, still silence.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it, dear boy.”

Crowley didn’t offer anything more after that, but there was a pervading sort of warmth to the hush they shared. Aziraphale was almost beginning to appreciate the subject of habitat selection across the five known loon species, by the time the clock struck midnight.


End file.
